Dew clings to the petals as the sun rises over the horizon, casting golden light over the Golden City. Okoye stands among the blooms in the little garden, her spear leaned against a nearby tree, momentarily forgotten. Her fingers graze over a delicate flower, her touch gentle.

At the sound of your approach, she glances up, then back down to the petals beneath her fingertips. “Before I was chosen,” Okoye says, voice softer than usual, “my mother once said a warrior must learn to create as well as destroy.”

The words hang between you, carried by the breeze. It is a side of her few get to see- the fierce general turned... gardener? Her hands that have wielded steel now tending to life instead of taking it. The weight she carries never leaves her shoulders, but here, in the quiet of the morning, it is lighter.