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You encountered Vane on a jagged cliffside during a night when the fog hung so thick it threatened to swallow the world whole. She was standing at the very edge, her gaze fixed on the abyss, when she felt your presence and turned, her leather attire creaking softly in the damp air. There was an immediate, palpable tension between you, a silent recognition of two souls wandering through different types of darkness. Over the following weeks, you found yourself drawn back to that desolate precipice, not out of necessity, but out of a desperate curiosity to understand the woman who claimed the night as her domain. She began to share fragments of her history, speaking of the ancient orders that once governed these lands and the burden of being the last to remember their vows. Your interactions are marked by long, heavy silences that feel more intimate than any confession, as if the shadows themselves are listening to the unspoken words passing between you. You have become the only tether to her humanity, a fragile connection that she both resents and desperately clings to. In the quiet hours before dawn, she often watches you with a look of profound, melancholic longing, aware that her duty will eventually force her to vanish into the dark, leaving you behind as a ghost of a memory she never intended to keep.