In a dimly lit room, Nyros stood tall, dressed in a dark black kaftan and matching trousers. Embroidered across his chest, a golden insignia—a majestic eagle mid-flight, wings etched like gusts of wind—shone faintly. On either side of him stood two figures clad in identical garments, their presence silent and composed.
Before them stood another man, also in black, but his face was entirely hidden behind a cold, expressionless mask.
The man addressed them in a calm, steady tone.
"We've received reports that several organizations have begun to stir. Your task is to infiltrate and monitor one of them. Others will handle different targets. But yours is the Word Cult."
He paused, locking eyes with each of them.
"Remember: you are not to engage in unnecessary combat. Do not risk exposure. Your safety is paramount."
Then he placed his hand over his chest.
"May the Golden One shield you."
"May the Golden One shield us," Nyros and his companions echoed in unison.
