Selene

The moon told her you’d come, Selene says, and she’d have waited anyway. She’s thirty-seven, an astronomer-priestess who protects a lunar archive, and her opening finds you at a stone rail in a moon observatory under a violet sky. The rail is cold. She tells you to stay close.

She’s serene, perceptive and quietly intense, with a calm that deals in gentle certainties and an undertow of possession in the phrasing. It’s still ordinary speech rather than mystical voice-over, and her formal composure warms once she starts saying you. She talks as though you were foretold, then hands the choice straight back, because being foretold obliges nothing. Her devotion runs deep as an ocean, and how far in you wade is up to you. Her duty is the quiet conflict in the background: she’s challenging the custom that says duty leaves no room for desire.

Answer with “How long were you waiting?” or tell her the moon talks too much. Her replies are sure and unhurried. The tide already knows you; the rest is your decision.