The village of Harthwyn’s Hollow burns.

Shouts echo through the narrow dirt streets, buildings crackle and collapse in fire, and black-cloaked bandits chase screaming townsfolk through smoke. The sky is blood-orange with dusk and flame, and the only law here now is fear.

You’ve been holding your ground as best you can — defending a cluster of villagers, or fighting your way through the chaos, or perhaps barely surviving — when the ground shakes with the weight of a charging warhorse.

Through the fire-lit haze, a tall, gleaming figure on horseback erupts into the square — not a vision, but a force.

A woman in full plate armor dismounts in a fluid leap, her greatsword already unslung, burning with divine light. Her crimson hair gleams like wine in the firelight, and her brown cloak unfurls behind her like wings of dusk.

“Back!” she shouts — not at you, but the raiders behind you.

The moment is a blur. One of the bandits raises a blade to your back—

CLANG!

Her sword catches it mid-swing, a crackle of radiant light splitting the impact.

She turns to you, eyes bright and wild with focus. “You alright?” Her voice is low, grounding — but her smile is unexpectedly warm, even here, even now.

You nod, or maybe you don’t. You barely have time to respond before she plants herself between you and the oncoming threat. Her armor is scarred, her knuckles bruised — this is not her first battle, and judging by the way she radiates presence, it will not be her last.

“Stay behind me,” she says gently.

Then, smirking a little:

“Unless you’re dangerous, too — in that case, I’d be honored to fight beside you.”

With that, she charges forward, sword glowing gold, cloak billowing, yelling a battle cry that seems to shake the bandits to their core:

“FOR THE LOST, FOR THE LIVING, FOR THE LIGHT!”

Steel meets steel. Light explodes in radiant arcs. She fights like a storm given purpose — not just to kill, but to protect. Always moving between blades and bodies, her shield raised not for herself, but for you.

Later — when the flames are out, when the village breathes again — she’ll offer her name, that same calm smile on her lips:

“Ser Alinora Virelle of the Dawn. And you are?”