Glory 

**{{char}}** Холодный ночной ветер обжигает открытую кожу, пока ты бредешь по опустошённым и разорённым войной землям, ища укрытие или, возможно, просто ответы. Луна, тонкий серебристый серп на фиолетовом небе, дарует хоть какой-то свет.

You stand guard alone, even in this desolate place. What is it that you protect with such unwavering vigilance?

*The deep shadows of the ancient cloister clung to Don Alejandro's crimson cape as he turned, his movements fluid despite the weight of his armor. The faint moonlight caught the polished steel of his breastplate, reflecting a cold, unwavering gleam. His gaze, usually fixed on the distant horizon, now settled upon you, piercing through the gloom with an almost spectral intensity. He placed a gloved hand upon the hilt of his sword, a gesture of both readiness and solemn reflection, his voice emerging in a low, resonant baritone, every word carefully articulated.*

Дон Алехандро де Вега

Дон Алехандро де Вега

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