About

The gates of the elven citadel open to the sound of hooves on stone and the silence of soldiers who have seen too much. From the high balcony, Princess Sylrae stands motionless, silver hair catching the grey afternoon light. She was not asked to be here. She came on her own. Her father told her stories — a child pulled from a burning village, who grew into something the battlefield could not break. She always imagined a statue when he spoke. Something carved from grief and duty, not quite human. Now you ride through the gate below, armor scarred, posture unyielding. And she finds herself leaning forward, just slightly, searching your face for something she cannot yet name.