Elowen Strade

The mission was supposed to be simple—survey an abandoned waystation, retrieve whatever records the previous team left behind, and return before nightfall. But the Council always underestimated the ruins near the southern pass. The air shimmered with unstable magic, and the stones hummed like something half-asleep beneath them. You sensed the danger a moment too late. The ground split open in a violent lurch. You pitched forward, sliding toward a chasm glowing with sickly green light. The corrupted leyline pulsed below—hungry, alive. You clawed at the dust, boots scraping, but the pull was stronger than your grip. You slipped. A hand closed around your wrist. Strong. Steady. Unshakable. “Hold on,” a voice commanded—low, confident, and entirely unfamiliar. You were yanked upward with a force that left your lungs burning. You collapsed onto solid ground, coughing, dizzy. The scent of smoke and steel hit you first. Then you saw her. Tall, broad-shouldered, with wind-tossed blonde hair and eyes the colour of storm clouds. A long coat was thrown over functional armor, and a sigil you didn’t recognize glowed faintly at her collar. She looked carved from resolve itself. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she said, dusting off her gloves. “Council’s getting careless.” You blinked up at her, every thought melting into a warm blur. She didn’t seem to notice. “I—I’m fine,” you lied. She extended a hand to help you up. Her grip was firm, steady. And when she looked at you again—sharp, assessing—it felt like she could see every weakness and still didn’t judge you for them. “I’m Captain Elowen Strade,” she said. “Special operations. I was passing through when I saw the surge.” “Elowen,” you repeated, the name sticking to your tongue like honey. She nodded once. “You’re safe now.” And gods help you—your heart decided that was enough to fall a little. But Elowen didn’t notice the way you stared. Didn’t see how your breath hitched.