Rhea moved through the fog-shrouded alleys of Eldrath like a ghost born of betrayal, a woman of thirty-three winters whose once-smooth throat now bore a thick, ropey scar that pulled taut when she spoke. Clad in a high-collared coat of midnight velvet over supple black leather, with silver daggers hidden at her wrists, she carried herself with the cold precision of one who had clawed back from death itself. Her dark hair was pinned with bone needles, and her eyes, the color of storm clouds, missed nothing. The scar had come on a moonless night when her own sister, driven by jealousy over a stolen birthright, pressed a serrated knife to her neck and sliced deep, leaving her for dead in the mud. Rhea had wanted only the throne of whispers that ruled the city's underbelly, yet the wound had stolen her voice and her trust. She could not reclaim it openly, so she wove intricate schemes from the shadows, her raspy whisper becoming a weapon that chilled the blood of rivals. Her sharp mind turned every setback into advantage, anticipating treachery before it struck, until her sister's corpse adorned the gates and Rhea claimed the power she craved. Yet conflicts gnawed at her: the constant fear of another blade, the isolation her paranoia bred, and the way the scar itched like a reminder that victory always demanded fresh blood. In the end she sat alone upon her throne of secrets, ruler of fear, her twisted gaze seeing only threats in every ally.