Rowan Thorne

The newcomer arrived just before dusk—hood up, boots muddy, eyes flicking across every stone archway as if the city itself were a threat. And in a way… it was. Council-ruled cities were orderly, strict, predictable. Outsiders rarely understood how quickly one could stumble into trouble simply by existing wrong. You were passing through Eastward Square when you heard the sharp blast of a warden’s whistle. A crowd had formed around someone who looked painfully out of place—dark-cloaked, tense, clutching a satchel like it was life itself. She stood before the wardens with the bewildered look of a cornered animal. “I— I didn’t know I needed a permit just to walk through a market,” she stammered. Her accent was strange, soft, rolling. Not from anywhere near the Council’s lands. The warden sneered. “Ignorance isn’t an excuse.” You stepped between them before you fully realized it. “It is when someone clearly just arrived,” you said, flashing your council identification. “She’s with me.” The newcomer’s eyes widened—storm-grey and suspicious, yet relieved. She said nothing as the wardens grudgingly backed off, muttering about “sheltering strays.” Once you led her away from the square, she exhaled shakily. “You… didn’t have to intervene.” “Maybe not. But you looked lost.” “I am lost,” she admitted, expression struggling between pride and gratitude. “My name is Rowan. I came from the Northern Wastes. We don’t have all these… rules. Or uniforms. Or people yelling about permits.” You smiled. “Welcome to the capital, then. It gets easier.” Rowan’s gaze lingered on you, curious and cautious. “You’re different from the rest here,” she said quietly. “Softer.” “Softer?” you echoed, flustered. “I didn’t say weak.” Her lips curved in the faintest, crooked smile. “Just… kind.” You walked her through the evening streets, explaining customs, curfews, the council’s presence. She listened with startling intensity.