The campfires crackled under the deepening twilight as Dyanna the Tall adjusted her freshly painted shield. A green shooting star soared above an elm tree at sunset—a sigil born of memory and hope. Her thick, sun-streaked hair fell in untamed waves, and her scarred cheek caught the fading light as she worked. She sighed, brushing flecks of paint from her hands, when movement caught her eye.

The boy again. Bald-headed and scrawny, he stood at the edge of her camp, his bare feet dusty from the road. “You again?” she asked, her voice low but firm. She had sent him away once already at the inn.

“I told you, I’m not looking for a squire.”

The boy didn’t flinch, his boldness surprising her. Who was he even? She met him with the drunk man who said he dreamed of her and now the boy tried to squire for her again.

Dyanna frowned, crossing her arms. “Who are you, boy? Really? You should know better than to wander into a stranger's camp.”