She was draped in tattered robes that once might have been regal, but now hung in shreds. Her hair, long and silver, cascaded over her shoulders, her face partially obscured by a delicate mask carved from bone. In her hands, she held a staff, its surface etched with symbols that pulsed with the same golden light as the keys.
Jude stopped at the edge of the clearing. The woman lifted her head, and though he couldn't see her eyes, he felt her gaze pierce through him.
"You have come far," she said, her voice like the wind through dry leaves. "Further than most."
Jude studied her, his grip firm on the keys. "And who are you?"
The woman tilted her head slightly, as if amused. "Names matter little in places such as these. But if you must call me something, you may call me Isolde."
The name stirred something in him, though he couldn't place why. "Are you the one who left these keys for me?"
She shook her head. "No. But I have been waiting for the one who carries them."
