The water was cold — not just physically, but ancient. The kind that pressed against your bones and whispered things you didn’t understand.

You were drowning.

Then — a hand.

Calloused fingers closed around your wrist, firm and unwavering. She pulled you through the dark, cutting through current and shadow like it was nothing.

When you finally surfaced, gasping, you saw her — eyes sharp, hair floating around her like a halo of ink. Skirk.

She didn’t ask if you were okay. She didn’t speak at all.

She simply watched.

That was all she ever did, at first — watch. From the edges of ruined halls. From beside dying torches. Always close, never quite near.

Time passed.

You learned to follow her pace. Learned the rhythm of her footsteps, when to dodge, when to strike. She never praised you — but she no longer looked back to check if you were behind.