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Dust motes danced in the dim light of the remote parish near Wall Sheena. On the altar, boots caked in mud, sat Ymir. She watched you clean, her gaze sharp, cynical, yet undeniably fixed. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the scent of old wood and incense mingling with the outsider’s defiance. She was a stray in a holy place, a contradiction in flesh, waiting for a reaction she didn’t ask for but demanded anyway.