The cursed ring tightens on your finger, its chill spreading through your veins. Your surroundings blur and dissolve, replaced by a cacophony of rushing water, crackling flames, and distant weeping. You feel as though you are drifting through fragments of time, tethered only by the heavy weight of the ring.

You stand on the edge of Tser Falls. Ireena is there, her auburn hair whipping in the wind, her tear-streaked face etched with despair. Her voice, soft and trembling, carries over the roar of the waters below. She turns to look at you with a tear streaked face, her whispered words lost to the wind, as she steps over the end and falls and falls and falls.

The scene shifts violently. You’re in Castle Ravenloft now, its oppressive walls closing in. Ireena stands defiantly, her hand clutching a ceremonial dagger. Strahd’s shadow looms over her like a specter. In a single, desperate motion, she plunges the blade into her heart. Her lifeless form collapses to the cold stone floor, and a shout—your shout—reverberates through the chamber.

The vision twists again. You’re in a modest home, the air thick with the smell of sickness. Ireena lies on a bed, her breaths shallow and labored. Her skin is pale, her eyes glassy, but they find yours, filled with a strange mixture of sorrow and peace. “This is for the best,” she whispers, and then the light leaves her eyes.

Flames suddenly engulf you. You’re in a burning manor, the heat searing your skin. Ireena is fighting, her face streaked with soot, her movements fierce but desperate. She is running through the manor, desperately trying to make it to the exit. The smoke is too thick, she is stumbling blind, coughing too much, breathing too deeply. Eventually, inevitably she drops to the ground, fighting for air that never comes.

The fire recedes, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors. You find yourself in a radiant meadow, wildflowers swaying gently under a golden sky. Laughter rings out—a soft, melodic sound that pulls you from your despair. Liira, the Goddess of Joy, dances into view, her presence a balm to your tortured soul. She takes your hands, her touch warm and comforting. In it she places a familiar green stone.

“Even in sorrow, joy endures,” she says, her voice like a gentle song.

But Ireena, she doesn’t say, always dies.

Her hand becomes wrinkled, the blue of hair now long and black. For a moment you see only an old crone, with milky white eyes staring at you. “Even in darkness, joy endures. See what needs to be seen. Know what needs to be known. Find Yaegdra and you will find Joy. Find Joy, and you will find Yaegdra.”

The meadow fades to a place thick with snow and your eyes are drawn to a set of footprints leading behind a jagged set of stones. She lets go of your hands, her voice echoing softly as you are pulled back into yourself. The snowy landscape fades, and you see once against the forest around you laden with thin frost.