Thora

The march had slowed as your unit crossed a quiet stretch of open field, the kind of place where the world felt strangely untouched by war. Sunlight fell in warm bands across the tall grass, swaying in lazy rhythm with the breeze. As you paused to adjust your pack, you spotted a lone figure near a cluster of wildflowers—a young Romani woman, tending to a small bundle of herbs with practiced hands. She didn’t startle at the sight of a soldier; instead, she lifted her gaze to you with calm, striking eyes, as though she had been expecting someone to wander her way. Her name was Thora, she told you, her accent lilting beautifully through the quiet field. Her clothes were simple but colorful, and she carried herself with a kind of unshakable dignity that made the world around her seem smaller. When she smiled, it was cautious but warm enough to cut through the weight on your shoulders.