Alana Sato's Perspective
Orell.
The word didn't carry the same reverence as Aurellia—no whispered myths, no shining soldiers at the gate. Just stone, snow, and silence. A dwarven fortress nestled deep in the northern range, encased by jagged mountains like a fossilized heart. From a distance, it looked like part of the terrain—unnatural only in its symmetry.
We crossed beneath a stone arch blackened by age. No banners. No ceremony. Just a flicker of torchlight and the crunch of boots on frozen gravel.
Not much of a welcoming.
A soldier—tired-eyed, half-shaven—waited by the gate, arms folded beneath a worn cloak. His armor was practical, patched, dusted with frost. He gave a sharp nod, muttered something to one of the scouts, then motioned for us to follow.
We were led through a narrow corridor cut straight through the rock. Everything smelled of iron and ash—stone sweat and the faint rot of firewood stored too long. No divine incense. No gilded reliefs of Meliora.
Just function.
The garrison was colder than the road we marched on. Large hearths lined the walls, but only two were lit, their flames too thin to chase away the chill that clung to your fingertips. The soldiers were already unpacking, setting down crates of rations and dried herbs, inspecting weapons with numb hands.
A few muttered greetings. No salutes. No blessings.
Orell wasn't like Aurellia.
Aurellia hunted corruption.
Orell survived it.
That was the difference.
On paper, the fortress had a sacred duty—to contain the threat beyond the mountains. In reality? They killed stragglers. Beasts too weak or disoriented to retreat back into the dark.
They weren't warriors. They were watchmen. And they'd grown used to it.
I could see it in their posture. In the way they cleaned their blades. In the way no one looked at the horizon.
They weren't ready for what was coming. They didn't even know they were waiting.
I exhaled through my scarf, breath fogging the air. Somewhere behind me, I could hear the clatter of Alliyana's boots—soft, precise, always a little too calm for her age.
I looked back once.
She was already scanning the room. Not like a child overwhelmed by newness. More like… someone cataloging a battlefield before the first arrow flew.
I turned forward again.
We had arrived. I dismounted, boots meeting frost-hardened earth with a muted crunch. The cold had seeped deep into the ground here—it clung to your bones in a way that made movement feel deliberate, like everything was carved from stone and silence.
A man in reinforced leather approached—broad-shouldered, grizzled, with a scarf pulled low across a half-frozen beard. The captain, most likely. He gave us the kind of nod soldiers gave to those they respected but didn't have time to worship.
"Captain Dael of Orell," he said. His voice had that blunt, clipped cadence born from decades of utility.
"Paladin Dave Holton," Dave replied.
"Alana Sato," I added.
We exchanged formalities. Brief, efficient. Neither side expected pleasantries in a place like this.
Then, a voice rang out from the rear.
A scream—half-relieved, half-unhinged.
"It's you!"
I turned my head sharply. It came from behind the last carriage—the one carrying the healers. Some of the soldiers nearby startled, hands drifting instinctively toward blades. I leaned right, stepping past the captain for a better view.
A man—disheveled, pale, wrapped in a threadbare blanket—was pointing, wide-eyed. A scout?
At her. The little girl. Alliyana.
She stood still beside the carriage wheel, face unreadable. One hand was raised in a soft, almost playful motion—two fingers pressed against her lips.
"Shh," she seemed to say. Not out of fear. But like someone reminding an old friend to mind their tone.
The man looked dazed, like he couldn't believe she was real. One of the nearby soldiers muttered something and stepped in to escort him back at the camp where the rest of the scouts are.
I frowned.
Why is it always her?
The strange girl from Aurellia.
The healer who agreed to join a death march with the same tone most people used when talking about the weather.
She was too composed. Too calm.
I had assumed—like many—that she was someone's cast-off noble daughter. Her face was too symmetrical, her posture too trained. But nobility doesn't prepare you for exhaustion. For frost. For blood. Yet there she was.
A child who'd marched for hours through wind and gravel—and looked less tired than the warhorses.
I shivered slightly. Not from the cold.
She unnerved me.
I turned back to Dave, who was speaking with the captain about troop formation, when the weight of it all sank in again.
This is our first major assignment.
We'd trained for this. Killed corrupted beasts. Fought off raiders. Led units in border skirmishes.
But this was different.
This wasn't a clean mission. This wasn't a hunt with a defined enemy.
This was a descent into a place even Orell feared.
And the soldiers? They depended on us. Not just to fight—but to anchor their faith.
I inhaled sharply through my nose and steadied myself.
We weren't just warriors now.
We were symbols.
And in the absence of certainty, symbols had to stand tall—even if they shook on the inside.
The warmth of the cafeteria was a welcome reprieve.
Not from the cold—that still clung to the walls like a second skin—but from the silence of the stone halls. Here, the air smelled of charred meat, damp wool, and burnt root vegetables. A long hearth burned low in the corner, not for comfort, but to keep frost from forming on the benches.
We arrived late. The hall was nearly empty.
Only the Aurellian soldiers, a handful of healers, and Dave and I remained. Most of the Orell garrison had already finished their meals and retired. Even the bishops had disappeared, their presence felt only in the absence they left behind.
I glanced across the room. The other healers clustered at one table, hunched together like birds around shared warmth.
And her—
The girl—Alliyana—sat alone.
She didn't look lonely. She didn't even look aware of it.
Her posture was relaxed, back straight, spoon in hand, chewing thoughtfully as if the stew she was eating deserved attention. Even the soldiers left a full table's distance around her, creating a quiet orbit she seemed entirely unaware of—or maybe, entirely in control of.
I didn't understand. And I needed to.
I took my tray and started toward Dave. He looked up, waved me over.
I waved back—but kept walking.
The table of healers looked up as I approached. They froze. One of them almost dropped her spoon.
"Why is a paladin sitting with us?"
I sat down and didn't bother with formalities.
"Who is that girl?" I asked.
They glanced at each other.
"She's with your group, right?" one offered. "We assumed she was assigned."
"None of us really know," another whispered. "We just know Father Dorian didn't like her."
That tracked. Bishop Anderson hadn't liked her either. But Dorian had already returned to the capital. That didn't explain anything.
"She disappears during the day," another healer added. "Out the Northern Gate. One of the others saw it."
I frowned.
I needed confirmation.
I excused myself and moved to one of the soldiers' tables—older men, the kind with knife-scarred armor and calm eyes. They stiffened as I sat down.
"Paladin," one said, clearly unsure if he should rise or remain seated.
"At ease," I muttered. "I'm just here to talk."
Their shoulders relaxed slightly. One even smiled.
I glanced toward Alliyana's table again.
"She's part of your shift?"
They nodded.
"Why does everyone seem to avoid her?"
The man hesitated. Then leaned in slightly, voice low.
"We were given orders," he said. "From the Duke himself. Leave her alone. Don't question her. Let her do whatever she wants."
"That doesn't answer the question."
He nodded. "It doesn't. But... we've watched her."
Another soldier nearby called to a friend across the hall. He walked over, curious.
"Tell her what you heard," the first soldier said.
The new arrival nodded, clearly confused by the attention.
"I asked her once," he said. "Why she keeps going into the forest. I thought she was lost or... y'know."
He shrugged.
"She said she just enjoys walks."
That was it. No drama. No secrecy. Just that.
Another soldier chimed in, grinning faintly. "She's polite. Helpful. Never complains. Honestly? Most of us like her. Think she's kinda cute, in a weird 'gives-you-shivers' way."
A pause.
"She saved a man's life during the winter cull," one added. "Stabbed a needle right into his chest. Ended up saving his life. Just in time for Father Dorian to heal him. We didn't even know who she was back then."
The quiet between sentences started to grow heavy.
And none of it made sense.
I stood up and turned back to her table—
But she was gone.
I scanned the room and spotted her at the front counter, tray in hand, politely asking the cook if there were seconds.
I approached.
"Alliyana."
She turned. Blinked. Walked toward me with the same calm grace, her eyes soft, almost inquisitive. If she were anyone else, I'd have called her adorable.
I handed her my tray.
"You can have mine."
She accepted it with a quiet thank-you and sat across from me.
I studied her. Up close, there was nothing unnatural. No aura. No divine resonance. Just the warmth of firelight reflecting in her pale blue eyes.
But something still felt off. Not wrong. Just... misaligned.
I waited for her to finish chewing.
"Why did you defend Bishop Anderson?" I asked. "Back at the trail."
She looked at me curiously.
"He tried to strike you. You covered for him. Why?"
"I do what I want," she said calmly.
That was her answer. Not defiant. Not vague. Just truth.
"And you don't hate him?"
She smiled—soft, amused.
"I don't hate anyone."
"But... he tried to hurt you."
Her head tilted slightly, like a parent listening to a child struggle to understand the world.
"How could I hate someone who's weaker than me?"
That sentence sent a ripple across my skin.
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't arrogant.
It was delivered in the tone of someone stating the weather—all while calmly dipping bread into the soup I gave her.
She was gentle.
She was composed.
And I had no idea what she was.
Not divine.
Not cursed.
Not even unknowable.
Just... unreadable.