Psychic

Under the bruised dusk in Blackfall, a Psychic stands alone atop crumbling obsidian pillars, palms raised. Purple beads glimmer on their wrists, threadbare robes whisper in the wind. They inhale a tremor of air, taste pressure in unseen places, then exhale with a whisper that cracks reality just enough: they can hear Danara’s echo.
  From thin nothingness, thoughts drag themselves forward—fears not yet spoken, memories not yet felt. The Psychic holds the void at bay, draws it close without letting it tear them apart. They read lies in silent lips, find truth in drained gazes, sense shadows shifting in the hearts of the faithful and the damned alike.
  To peer too far into nothingness is to risk being lost. Yet each time the Psychic reaches into the void, they offer followers hope: that unseen threads bind destiny, that silence holds answers, that the void is not the end—but a beginning of something darker, something more profound.