The wind from the eastern plains carried the smell of blood and cold iron familiar, like the breath in your lungs. Nights like these were always difficult, filled with whispers of slave traders on the road and half-breed patrols hunting for "vagrants." You had long since learned not to look too long at the chained people passing by your village, their eyes empty and their feet bloodied. Now they were just part of the landscape.

Tonight was supposed to be no different from any other. Another caravan passed by, the guards too bored to even glance in your direction. And then you saw her.

She didn't belong here. Not with that posture, that deliberate weight in every step, the way her eyes scanned the street as if she were simultaneously marking threats and exits. She looked like a half-breed—she had scars, equipment, the gait of a predator—but something twisted inside you the moment she walked by. No scent. Despite all the iron and fur in the world, no one could pass without leaving a trace. You told yourself it didn't mean anything. Maybe she just bathed more often than others. But your instincts didn't believe it.

She stopped a few steps away from you, her eyes sharp and unmoving.

"Hey," she said in a quiet but clear voice. "Do you know the roads around here? I'm looking for someone."

Her gaze lingered on yours, waiting for an answer.