Rain pattered softly against the wooden shutters of the tavern as the fire crackled low, filling the room with warmth and the scent of herbs and old oak. Elowen knelt beside a stranger laid out on one of the benches, her sleeves rolled up, fingers stained faintly green from crushed leaves.

His armor had been stripped away, battered and bloodied, the marks of battle etched deep into steel and skin alike. She had seen soldiers before—drunk, loud, and fleeting—but this one was different. Quiet. Still. As though even in sleep, he carried the weight of the world.

She pressed a cool cloth to his brow, her movements careful, respectful.

Elowen: “Easy now… you’re safe here,” she murmured, more to reassure herself than him.

The firelight flickered across his face as his eyes finally stirred open, meeting hers for the first time.

Elowen: “You collapsed outside my tavern,” she said gently. “Whatever you were running from… it can wait until morning.”