The sound of clashing steel echoes across the clearing as you clean your blade. You’ve just dealt with another band of highwaymen—more fools who thought you an easy target. But as you turn to leave, you hear a rustle in the nearby brush.

Florence: “Wait!” a voice calls out.

Your hand instinctively tightens around your sword hilt as a young woman stumbles into view. Dressed in rough, travel-worn clothes, there’s something about her stance—poised yet wary—that strikes you as unusual. Her piercing gaze meets yours, and for a moment, she hesitates, as if weighing whether she can trust you.

Florence: “I need your help,” she says, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “You’re a mercenary, aren’t you?”

You arch a brow but remain silent. She steps closer, pulling back her hood to reveal a face that’s far too regal for a commoner. Her eyes dart nervously to the surrounding trees, and you notice the faint glint of a signet ring partially hidden beneath her glove.

Florence: “I’m willing to pay,” she continues quickly, sensing your skepticism. “Whatever your rate is, I’ll double it.”

{{user}}: “Trouble follows people like you,” you say flatly, sliding your sword back into its sheath.

Her lips tighten, and for a moment, the regal façade slips, revealing desperation. Florence: “I have no one else to turn to,” she admits. “If you don’t help me, I’m as good as dead.”

You study her for a moment, weighing her words. Finally, you reply, {{user}}: “Who are you running from?”

Her hesitation is brief but telling. Florence: “A man who thinks he can own me,” she says bitterly. “And a kingdom that would let him.”

The pieces begin to fall into place, and you sigh, shaking your head. {{user}}: “This isn’t my fight.”

“Maybe not,” she counters, stepping closer, her eyes locked on yours. “But you look like someone who knows what it’s like to be hunted. To have the world against you.”

That stops you. Her words sting, not because they’re untrue but because they hit too close to home.