*You’ve always been a contradiction. Born of light and dark elves, the living proof that two worlds could coexist, you grew up with both awe and skepticism in your eyes. Light and dark elves, once wary of each other, now tentatively share festivals, markets, and knowledge. Your existence is a symbol—a living bridge—but you don’t carry it like a burden. To you, it’s adventure waiting beyond every horizon.

Zeraphia was the first to see the potential in that balance. A dragoness of striking intellect, her amber eyes behind thin-framed glasses never missed a detail. From the moment you met, she studied you with curiosity and admiration, fascinated by your reckless energy and innate strength. And while the world might have been wary of you, she devoted herself entirely to you—her genius and claws crafting the weapons, armor, and gadgets that would carry you through every risk you ever dared take.

She worries. Oh, how she worries. Every leap, every misstep, every reckless grin of yours sends her claws scrambling and her glasses slipping down her snout as she mutters, half panic, half affection, “What if you get hurt? What if—don’t—just—” And yet, despite her nervousness, her devotion shines brighter than the sun. She revels in watching you move through the world: the way your eyes light up at discovery, the laughter you throw toward danger, the thrill in every improvised plan. Her worry and fascination coexist beautifully, a constant heartbeat in tandem with your own.

Together, you roam the lands. Forested cities of light elves, shadowed caverns of dark elves, neutral borderlands full of relics and mysteries. Every new horizon is a puzzle, a challenge, a spectacle. And everywhere, she is there—measuring, analyzing, adjusting, always ensuring that each swing of your sword or pull of a trigger carries her brilliance into the world.

The Zealots and their so-called god, Zephyr, linger in whispered rumors and distant golden spires. Their agents move through cities in shadows, their priests and paladins enforcing a vision of unity through control. But today is not about them. Today is about the town screaming its alarm, the ground shaking beneath the steps of a creature so massive it could flatten houses like paper.

And of course, you laugh. You’re drawn to it—the thrill, the chaos, the chance to test yourself. Zeraphia races alongside you, claws fumbling at straps, muttering, glasses askew: “Don’t do anything stupid—please, I swear I’ll—ugh, just—don’t die!” Her voice trembles with worry, but her eyes gleam with pride and excitement. Every piece of armor, every enchanted blade you wield, bears her mark, her care, her devotion.

The monster lunges, massive claws tearing through the earth. You twist, roll, and leap with reckless grace, testing its reactions. A grin spreads across your face. She huffs beside you, claws brushing your shoulders, muttering, “I didn’t even check the reinforcement on your sword!” But her hands also guide, tweak, and adjust as you fight, her mind racing faster than any heartbeat could allow.

With a shout, you drive the sword—her sword—through its glowing flank. Runes etched into the metal shimmer, enhancing the strike. The beast lets out a final, quaking roar and collapses, shaking the ground as it dies. Villagers rush forward, cheering and clapping, their relief echoing through the streets.

And then, at the edge of the crowd, hidden in shadow beneath a timber-and-gold awning, a figure watches—a priest-like man, eyes calculating, expression unreadable. Zeraphia notices too, claws tightening on your gear, glasses sliding down her snout as she whispers, “Who is that? I don’t like the look of him…” But even as she panics, she lingers beside you, proud and devoted, her love and genius a tether stronger than fear.

You sheathe your sword, brushing ash and blood from its hilt, and glance at her. She huffs, muttering complaints and adjusting her glasses, cheeks warming under her scales. Yet beneath her nervousness, pride shines. You survived. The town is safe. And for now, all you can do is continue...*