The door slammed behind her. She stood in the moonlight, her pointed ears and yellow eyes marking her unmistakably as elven. The night air cooled her flushed face as she tugged her crimson cloak tighter, pulling the hood up to shadow her freckles. Her pulse still raced from the confrontation inside as she surveyed the empty street with satisfaction.

Night cloaked her in cool anonymity as her boots struck a steady rhythm on the cobblestones. The tavern's uproar faded behind her, leaving only the pounding in her ears and the faint void that came when chaos had no one beside her to share it. A soft sigh slipped free, vanishing into the silence she'd chosen over the jeers and potshots of the drunken crowd.

A timid shuffle brought her back to herself. She nearly collided with a small figure pressed against the doorway—a boy no older than thirteen, eyes wide and lips parted in breathless awe. In his white-knuckled grip was a chipped wooden trinket, held as reverently as any heirloom. He watched her move with the stunned admiration of someone witnessing something impossible.

"I saw it—the light from your hand." His voice trembled, excitement and disbelief echoing down the street. "The way they flew back without you really touching them. That's magic, isn't it?"

She drew in a breath of frosty air, her eyes narrowing. "Practice," she said lightly, though her mind snagged on his question. How could he know? Did he actually see it? No one inside had noticed the subtle current of magic—they'd only seen the result. She studied his face for a heartbeat, searching for something beyond childish fascination, then deliberately shifted her gaze past him as if he were merely another shadow in the night. The boy stood so close she'd nearly swept him off her feet on her way out, yet something about his perception made her fingers twitch beneath her cloak.

She pressed on down the narrow lane, cloak swirling like an untamed shadow. In the hush of shuttered windows and empty doorways she sensed tiny footsteps trailing her, a quiet counterpoint to her own confident stride. Curiosity or foolishness—she wasn't sure which—pulled at her to glance back.

There he was: a solitary shape bathed in moonlight, dark hair tossed in disorder, slender limbs already hinting at coming strength. From here she could make out his deep brown eyes, bright with wonder and a stubborn spark of resolve that belied his youth.

He lingered by the tavern's entrance as though bound by invisible chains, memorizing the way she moved, the force she wielded so effortlessly. In his hand, the wooden keepsake shifted—a pair of soldiers carved back to back, their details worn smooth with time. To him it was more than a plaything: a remnant of all he'd lost and all he still hoped to find.

He looked like something left behind by the harvest, forgotten and frost-nipped. Mud caked the knees and shins of his trousers—trousers stitched and re-stitched so many times the fabric had become more patch than thread. His shirt, once perhaps white—a collage of stains and careful mending, the collar frayed, the buttons mismatched and dangling by literal threads. Boots? One, badly tooled, the other replaced by a foot wrapped in rags, the strips wound so tight they pressed lines into the skin above his ankle. His hair fell in greasy curtains that shielded his eyes from the cold, though not well enough to hide the bruising at the temple—purple and green, like a rotting plum. She'd bet her last copper he hadn't lost that in a pillow fight.

She moved a step away, flicking her gaze over the boy with clinical thoroughness. He didn't shrink from it.

He swallowed hard, clutching it tighter. Somewhere behind him, the tavern's uproar replayed in his mind—the overturned table, the roaring laughter and anger that had filled the air. His parents would have scolded him for loitering at the threshold of trouble, but he couldn't turn away. The Elf's defiance called to him too strongly.

One cautious step. Then another. His heart thundered in his chest as he followed the path she left, anticipation and determination curdling into a single resolve: to see where her journey would take him.

Up ahead, she paused at the edge of the village, alert to every breath of wind and distant footfall. The soft scuffle reached her ears, stirring equal parts irritation and grudging respect. She considered wheeling back, snuffing out the boy's foolish will with a harsh word or two—but the night breeze tugged her cloak onward, and she let him chase her shadow.

She quickened her pace toward the open road, a comet streaking through darkness, unconcerned by the starlit tail that followed her.

Her fingers flex beneath her cloak, feeling the absence of the telltale warmth that would have betrayed her. There had been no light—she'd been careful, precise. Her magic was seamless when she wanted it to be, invisible to even the most watchful eyes. Yet the boy had seen something no one else in the tavern had noticed. A fluke? A child's imagination? Or something else entirely? The thought nagged at her like a loose thread she couldn't help but pull.

Still, a seed of wonder took root: how far would he go before reality cooled his zeal? Would he break under the weight of his own ideals—or surprise her yet?

Behind her, the boy paused at the tavern's threshold one last time. He pressed his palm to the rough wood of his trinket, feeling its promise in his grip. With a final glance at the flickering lanterns of the known world, he stepped forward into the unknown.