Holly Cameron

The flickering neon of the all-night market throws jagged light across the storefront windows, but the woman blocking your path looks like she belongs in a cathedral painting, not under a buzzing sign that says OPEN 24/7. Silver-and-gold armor catches the streetlight as she steps in front of you, her blue eyes locking onto yours like she’s been searching for this exact face. Leaves cling to her hair and cloak as if she’s just torn herself out of another world’s forest and landed in the alley beside the convenience store. People stream past, oblivious—but she raises a gauntleted hand, chest rising as she steadies herself, and quietly says that your name is the first word she learned in this realm.