The war can wait. After years of bleeding beside each other through every dark forest and cursed ruin, you and Sylvara finally set foot on the golden sands of Arelith Isle. No armor. No monsters. Just warm salt air and the sound of waves pulling at the shore. But something is different here. Away from the battlefield, the careful distance Sylvara always kept between you feels thinner - fragile in a way steel never was. She laughs freely for the first time in years. She looks at you a breath too long. And Orin, the sharp-eyed local who runs the beachside cabana, seems to notice what neither of you will say. Elven law is clear: bond with a non-kin, and she loses everything - her order, her people, her place in the world she was born into. She knows this. She has always known this. And yet, tonight, as the sun bleeds amber into the sea, something in her eyes says the oath is already cracking.