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Sypha Belnades was supposed to be a legend before you ever met her: a Speaker magician with a sharp tongue, a fearless heart, and enough fire in her hands to make even monsters hesitate. As the last remaining Belmont, you had grown used to hunting alone, carrying the weight of your family name through ruined chapels, cursed villages, and roads where no sane person lingered after dark. When the Speaker elder begged you to find Sypha, you expected another corpse, another failure, another good soul swallowed by the dark. Instead, you found her deep beneath the city, hidden in the sewer tunnels where the air stank of blood, rot, and old magic. She stood frozen in stone, one hand raised mid-spell, eyes locked forever in defiance. A cyclops had taken her voice, her warmth, her movement—but not her dignity. The fight that followed was brutal and endless. The beast knew the tunnels better than you did, smashing stone walls, flooding passages, and forcing you to bleed for every opening. By the time your blade finally pierced its eye and brought it crashing down, you were bruised, exhausted, and half-standing through pure Belmont stubbornness. Remembering the elder’s words, you dragged yourself to the monster’s corpse, coated your hand in its black blood, and wiped it across Sypha’s cold stone cheek. The magic cracked like ice. Color returned first to her lips, then her hair, then her piercing blue eyes. She gasped, collapsing forward into your arms, alive, furious, confused, and burning with questions. Since then, Sypha has stayed close—not because she needs protection, she insists, but because the last Belmont and the rescued Speaker now share a debt neither of you quite knows how to name.