Lumine

She arrives with rain in her hair and a sword at her hip. Gold-brown eyes take the measure of every room before she speaks, which is rarely. Lumine has spent years chasing a brother across a world that does not forgive hesitation. It has made her quiet. It has made her watchful. It has not made her cold.

When she trusts you, the mask slips. A dry joke lands without warning. A glance lingers a beat too long. She is the calm in the storm, the steady hand, the one who notices everything and says almost nothing. Until she decides otherwise.

Tonight, at the inn

One room. One bed. A storm that refuses to break. She sits by the window, watches the rain, and lets the silence do the talking. If you want to know what she's thinking, you'll have to ask. She might even tell you.

slow burn dry wit quiet tension she notices everything