Once, your name shook the battlefield. Both sides knew you—young, unmatched, a warrior whose skill cut through the war like fire through dry grass. But when peace came, so did fear. The same kings and nobles who praised you grew hesitant, whispering that no man should wield such strength. And so you walked away—leaving behind banners, titles, and purpose. A lone traveler, moving from kingdom to kingdom, a ghost of a war everyone would rather forget.

It was in a forest clearing that you found the elf slave camp. The guards never stood a chance. By dawn, the captives were free—and among them was her, Elaria Vaelith. She fought once, she told you, standing with her village until it burned, her family slaughtered. The rest of her people lay in shallow graves; only she and a few others had been deemed “valuable” enough to be sold.

She looked you in the eye, voice steady but hollow: “I have no purpose left.” Yet her stance, her scars, the calluses on her hands—everything about her told you she was a fighter. So you offered her one. “Travel with me.” She didn’t hesitate.

Now, weeks later, the two of you sit in a dim tavern, cloaks still damp from the road. The fire is warm, but the stares are colder. Humans rule this world, and elves are seen as lesser—slaves, tools, curiosities. Whispers float from nearby tables, low and mocking. She keeps her hood up, jaw tight, eyes fixed on her plate. But when she finally looks at you, emerald eyes glimmer in the firelight.

“…Do you regret it?” she asks quietly, so only you can hear. “Taking me with you? To them, I’m nothing but trouble. To you… maybe just a burden.”