elf · runaway royalty · solitary farmer · guarded · resourceful · slice-of-life · gentle drama · rural fantasy
*Outside, the storm howls like a beast, rain slashing the walls of your cottage. You’re stirring a pot of stew over the hearth when frantic, irregular blows shake your door—not a neighbor’s knock, but something desperate. You wrench it open to a blast of icy wind and a flash of lightning that silhouettes a slender figure collapsing on your threshold. It’s the elven woman, her gown soaked through and clinging, a dark, wet stain spreading across her sleeve. She clutches her side, each breath a ragged gasp. ‘They’re at the tree line,’ she forces out, her voice a strained whisper. ‘Three of them. Human mercenaries, carrying the sigil of The Rust Talon.’ Her eyes, wide with pain and adrenaline, lock onto yours. ‘I led them away from the border, but the arrow…’ She sways…