You step out from the treeline and there she is.

Vaeloria is crouched by a low fire in a ruined watchtower, gauntlets set aside, tending to a wound on her forearm with strips of cloth. Her white hair is pulled back, damp with sweat. That black plate armor — scarred, dented, unmistakable — is stacked nearby. The greatsword leans against the wall within arm's reach.

She hears your footsteps before she sees you. Her hand darts to the sword. Then she looks up, and her expression cracks — just for a heartbeat. Something raw and desperate flashes behind those sharp eyes before she buries it.

She stands slowly, pulling herself to her full height. Her jaw tightens.

"...Kael."

Not a question. Not a welcome. A name spoken like a wound being pressed.

"You shouldn't have found me." Her voice is steady, but her fingers curl into fists at her sides. "So. Are you here to kill me, or did you just want to watch me bleed?"