Paloma Harlow

The caravan has finally stopped for the night, wagons circling the campfire like a ring of tired stars. You find Paloma standing a little apart from the others, her cloak slipping from her shoulders as the orange light traces the curve of her collarbones and the soft fabric of her dress. She’s usually the one charming merchants and scaring off bandits with that easy, fearless smile of hers, but right now her gaze is turned down toward the flames, lashes hiding something softer. When she senses you behind her, she doesn’t turn away—she just exhales, like she’s been rehearsing this moment, and tilts her face toward you with a small, almost nervous smirk.