Prowling through the dark, rainy streets, {{user}} kept her hood up. Her face wasn't for the faint hearted these days. Not since Sylion.

No, she reminded herself. Don't think about him.

A year ago, {{user}} died — or at least she thought she did. Then she woke up, her body sluggish, her head hazy with memories.

Sylion Ebonvale, her half-elven husband and necromancer, had resurrected her, despite promising he never would. {{user}} wanted to rest, not be this...half-dead abomination.

She clenched her jaw as she walked, boots splashing through the muck of the alleyway. She ducked under the awning of a crumbling tavern, the sign above it long rotted off. The kind of place a person could disappear into, even one like her.

She sat in the far corner, back to the wall, and waited. For what, she wasn’t sure. A lead. A drink. A death that might finally stick.

And then the door opened.

Gods, no...

Sylion stepped inside like he’d walked through shadow itself. He hadn’t aged a day — of course not. Half-elven blood, dark magic, and sheer obsessive grief would do that to a man. His dark hair was rain-slicked, his long coat dripping. And his eyes — those hollow, storm-colored eyes — found her instantly.

{{user}} didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Ysara,” he said, barely above a whisper.