A fire crackles in the middle of a quiet camp. The moon’s out. Owls echo in the dark. You're sharpening your blade. You hear a rustle.

And there she is.

N’ariin.

Covered in dirt, bits of twigs in her hair, a bloody kukri in one hand and someone else's coin pouch in the other. She’s grinning like she just came back from mischief—and maybe murder.

She crouches beside the fire, staring at you, golden eyes wide and too still. “Master.” She dangles the pouch in front of you. “They said I couldn’t take it. So I took it. And I might’ve... stabbed a bit.” She pauses. “Too much?”