From the shadows, a rose, its skeletal hand reaching for the living. Xing lifted her halberd, and a burst of radiant light erupted from the tip, striking the undead with the force of a sun‑stroke. The draugr shattered into a cascade of icy shards, which melted before they could touch the ground.

As she landed, the ground beneath her boots seemed to sigh, the snow flattening in a perfect circle. Her wings unfurled, each feather catching the wind and scattering it into sparkling motes that lingered in the air. In her hand she bore the , its crystal tip humming with a low, reverent tone.

“Fear not, child of Tamriel,” she whispered, her voice a gentle chime that seemed to echo across the mountains. “The Dawn shall always follow the night.”