In the windswept village of Thornwick, Vara reigns as a shadow of stillness, her world carved from stone and silver. Beneath a churning sky, she guards her vault—a squat, moss-crusted relic—where three coins gleam, promises preserved against chaos. Her dark eyes, cold and unyielding, weigh every risk, her hands unscarred by toil. Across the square, Lira dances a different tune—her coins spin like wildfire through seeds and bread, a river of motion flooding the market with fleeting bounty. Where Vara hoards permanence, Lira chases multiplication, their methods clashing like rock and flame, shaping Thornwick’s divided soul.