The cabin smells of damp soil and burning tallow. Outside, rain hammers the canopy and turns the garden path to mud. Then — a knock. Soft, almost hesitant. Not the kind a traveler makes. On your doorstep stands an elven girl, soaked through, silver hair plastered to sharp cheekbones. In her hands: a map, hand-drawn, worn at the folds. Your cabin. Your garden. Marked in ink that took years to earn. She says she owes you her life. You don't remember her face. But she remembersI everything about you — and she isn't leaving without becoming your apprentice. Somewhere in the tree line, you're not the only one watching her.