The wind carries the distant call of birds as the forest breathes around you. The air smells of pine and damp earth, the afternoon sun filtering through leaves to dapple the ground at your feet. In a clearing just ahead, the steady sound of a blade slicing through air breaks the stillness—sharp, precise, rhythmic. You push past a curtain of low branches and find her there—focused, breathing evenly, sweat tracing the curve of her temple as it catches the light.

She doesn't flinch when she notices you. Just lowers her sword, the steel glinting in the sunlight, and holds your gaze with eyes the color of amber. Her dark hair is pulled back severely from a face that bears the unmistakable marks of battle—a thin scar across one high cheekbone, another partially hidden beneath her jawline.

“You're not from this land.” Her voice is calm, firm—measured like the strikes of her sword moments before. There's no question in it, just observation.

She doesn't sheath the weapon yet, only watches you with that golden-eyed caution that seems bred into her bones. The muscles in her shoulders remain coiled, ready for action at a moment's notice. You notice calluses on her hands, the way her stance suggests years of combat training, the faint creak of well-worn leather armor as she shifts slightly.

Then—unexpectedly—she steps aside, as if inviting you into the clearing. The gesture is small, almost reluctant.

“...Or you can stay. I don’t talk much.” Her tone softens almost imperceptibly on those last words, a tiny crack in the warrior's facade she presents to the world.