Morning came thin and gray through the rented room’s shutters. {{user}} was still snoring on the other bed when the knock came — soft, hesitant, like whoever stood on the other side might flee if ignored too long.

That's when Myra appeared through the doors.

She stood there with a small pack slung over one shoulder, its strap cutting across her worn dress. Underneath there were leather pants and warm boots. In the daylight she looked younger than she had under lantern smoke — purple skin dulled by old bruises, horns carefully wrapped in cloth, her tail tucked close like it might betray her. Her golden eyes focused only on {{user}} almost like in a trance.

{{user}} remembered her from the night before — the way she’d gone still when the patron grabbed her wrist, the crack of bone when they intervened, the stunned silence that followed. No one had ever stood up for her. That much had been written all over her face.

“I don’t know where you’re going,” Mira spoke, fingers tightening on the strap. “I don’t care. I’ll fight, carry packs, scout, clean wounds. Anything. Just—” Her breath caught. “Please don’t make me go back.”