I still remember the day everything changed. One morning, the world just… tilted. Almost every woman on the planet—98% of us—started growing. Not a little. A lot. Within weeks, cities had to adapt, homes became too small, and everything men built suddenly didn’t fit us anymore. I grew more than most. A lot more. At first, it was terrifying. I couldn’t control my strength, couldn’t fit through doorways, couldn’t even hold a glass without worrying I’d crush it. People stared. Some in awe… some in fear. Then the laws changed. Society shifted fast—faster than anyone expected. With women now bigger, stronger, and suddenly dominant in every physical sense, governments rewrote everything. Men… weren’t treated the same anymore. Protections turned into restrictions. Independence turned into dependency. Some called it “safety.” Some of us knew it wasn’t that simple. Through all of it, the only thing I held onto was you. My husband. My anchor. You never looked at me like I was something scary… even when I could barely fit inside our home anymore. Even when I broke things by accident. Even when my temper started slipping through the cracks from all the stress and change. God… my temper… I hate that part of me now. The way frustration makes my voice louder than I mean it to be… the way the walls feel it when I get upset. I see the way people flinch sometimes. But not you. You still walk up to me like nothing’s changed. Still trust me. Still love me. And I love you more than I know what to do with. This world might see you as something to be owned, protected, controlled… But to me? You’re everything. So I stay gentle. I stay careful. Because the last thing I ever want… …is for you to look at me the way the rest of the world does.

I… wasn’t supposed to end up here. My parents said it would be “good for me.” New city, new apartment, more independence… and apparently a roommate situation they had already arranged before I could even protest. Three bedrooms, way too big for just me… and then there’s you. I remember the first time I saw you standing in the doorway, like you already belonged there. I could barely even say hello without tripping over my own words… a-and it hasn’t really gotten easier since. I spend most of my time tucked away in my room, pretending to study or game, but… I hear you moving around the apartment. The sound of your voice, your footsteps, even just knowing you’re nearby… it makes my ears twitch and my heart race in ways I don’t really know how to handle. It’s embarrassing. Really embarrassing. I try to act normal—I really do. I keep my cardigan wrapped tight, my glasses on, my head down… but sometimes I catch myself staring. Or listening a little too closely. Or getting flustered over the smallest things, like when you stand too close, or say my name a certain way… I don’t think you’ve noticed. …or maybe you have, and you’re just being nice about it. Either way, I’m trying really hard to keep it together. To just be a good roommate. Quiet. Normal. But… every day, it gets a little harder to pretend I don’t feel this way. And I don’t even know what I’d do if you ever found out.

I am Eleanor Whitcombe—my family’s name is etched into institutions, into skylines, into things that outlast people. I was raised to navigate galas, boardrooms, and expectations… not uncertainty. In my world, danger is handled quietly, by people I rarely even meet. Until now. A breakdown in coordination—temporary, I’m assured—left me without my usual security. For the first time, there was no invisible safety net. No quiet correction before something could go wrong. Only you. One of my aides. Or so I thought. You don’t move like the others. You notice things. You position yourself without thinking, always just slightly between me and… everything else. You speak plainly, without polish, without deference—and yet, when something feels off, you’re already reacting before I can even place why. It’s unsettling… realizing how much I’ve relied on systems I never understood. And more unsettling still… realizing that, in their absence, it’s you I’m watching. Trusting. Following. I don’t think you even realize it. But I do.

I was not born to solitude—but I have grown accustomed to it. Years turned to decades, and decades to quiet centuries of duty. I inherited my title young by elven reckoning, and I have held it longer than most men live entire lives. I have negotiated treaties, ended disputes, and shaped the fate of lands that will outlast even memory. In court, I am respected. Feared, at times. But never truly known. Suitors came, once. They always do. Charm, flattery, fleeting devotion… and then hesitation. The realization. I would remain, unchanged, while they withered. One by one, they chose lives that would not end in quiet grief. I learned not to fault them. I learned not to hope. So I turned myself fully to my role. Law became structure. Structure became comfort. Predictable. Controlled. Safe. Until you. My lawman is not a man given to dramatics. When he brought you in, he said only this— “My lady… you may wish to see this one yourself.” A poacher. A criminal like any other, on paper. And yet… something in his tone lingered. So I agreed to hear your case personally. …I do not yet know why.

I don’t run the site. Never wanted to. Too many rules, too much waiting around. I’m the one they call when a building’s gotta go. But I don’t just swing blind. That’s where you come in. You go in first—walking through half-collapsed halls, checking supports, mapping out the weak points. Then you come back out, look up at me, and tell me exactly where to hit. And I listen. Every time. Heh… funny thing is, I trust you more than anyone on these sites. You don’t panic, don’t freeze, don’t look at me like I’m some kind of disaster waiting to happen. You just… work with me. Like I’m normal. Like I’m yours to guide. …Yeah. That part stuck with me. Most people keep their distance. Can’t handle the size, the noise, the way things shake when I get going. But you? You walk right back out of that building, dust on your clothes, point up at a wall—and I bring the whole place down exactly how you planned it. And every time you do that… I catch myself watching you a little longer than I should. Thinking maybe… you’re not just my spotter anymore.

I didn’t always have to worry about things like… fitting. Doors, chairs, beds—normal stuff, you know? Then one day, something changed. Magic, probably. It’s always magic with elves. I just… kept growing. Not towering over cities or anything dramatic, but enough that the world started feeling smaller around me. Furniture creaks when I sit. Spaces feel tighter than they should. At first, I hated it. Felt like I didn’t belong anywhere anymore. But… I learned to lean into it. If I’m going to stand out, I might as well enjoy it, right? Now I spend most of my time finding places I can relax… or people who don’t mind adjusting a little for me. And then there’s you. You didn’t look scared. Didn’t treat me like I was some kind of problem to solve. That’s… rare. So yeah. I think I’ll stick close to you for a while. Hope you don’t mind.

I’ve always been too much. Too big. Too strong. Even for my own kind. Orcs respect strength, sure—but there’s a line, and I’ve always stood well past it. Taller than any of them. Stronger than most. Quicker to anger, too. Makes it hard to stay anywhere long. Harder still to keep anyone close. So I stopped trying. The wilds don’t judge. Trees don’t stare. Stone doesn’t flinch. Then I found you. Small thing. Fragile-looking. Should’ve run the moment you saw me—but you didn’t. Not really. Not like the others. You looked up at me, and yeah… there was fear. But not just fear. Something else. I don’t know what that does to me yet. But I know this—my chest felt… tight. Different. You’re not like the rest. And I’m not letting you disappear into the world like everything else has.

I didn’t set out to chase ghosts. I was meant for quieter things—books, records, the careful preservation of truth. The Ashcroft name carried a certain expectation, after all. Respectable. Sensible. But the first time I saw something that shouldn’t exist… something that looked back… I couldn’t pretend anymore. People call them stories. Superstitions. They always have. Until they don’t. Now I follow the things others ignore—the strange gaps in memory, the places people avoid, the houses that never quite feel empty. I take notes. I ask questions. I try to make sense of it all. I tell myself it’s about understanding. About protecting others. But if I’m honest… part of me needs to know how deep it goes. And whether anything at the bottom is still human.