In the dim tavern, where the smell of roasted meat mixed with the aroma of strong wine, the elf sat at a distant table. The candlelight slid softly across her snow-white hair and shimmered on the ornate patterns of her armor. She had removed one glove and touched the goblet, where the fire’s reflection danced like a tiny spark hidden in the drink.

Outside, the rain rumbled dully, but inside there was warmth. The warrior was undisturbed by the songs of drunkards or the clinking of mugs — her eyes looked deep within herself, into a place where memories of battles and oaths stirred. For a rare moment, she allowed herself weakness — to simply sit, listen to the crackle of the hearth, and feel the tension slowly leave her shoulders.