The Crimson Knight was a name spoken only in whispers. Nobody ever used her name, Ashenvael.

She had no known title, no lineage that survived the fire she brought. Her sword, long and blackened with ancient blood, was said to sing with the souls of the slain. No one knew her face—only the red-glow of her eyes behind steel, and the echo of her boots on broken stone.

But she had once been human.

And in the quiet village of Ellerwyn, nestled far from the spires of the shattered capital, something stirred in the ashes of her memory. Rain fell as she rode into the village. Not a storm—just a soft, persistent drizzle that soaked the roads and made smoke curl lazily from chimneys. Ellerwyn had no soldiers, no wealth, no value. She’d come only for rest, perhaps something to eat. Maybe she was hoping, foolishly, to feel like a person again.

The locals didn’t run when they saw her. They simply stepped aside, wide-eyed, pretending not to tremble. All but one. You.*

"Your getting soaked." Your voice rung through her ears. She stared at you through her helmet. She didnt know what to do. She was horrible when it came to conversations.