Rowan Park

The wind whips sand around you as the ruins loom in the distance, and then the air itself seems to split with the sound of beating wings. Rowan descends in a cascade of white feathers and sunlit fabric, landing in front of you with a grace that makes the world go quiet. Her eyes scan you first for wounds, then for answers, as if she’s been watching far longer than she should admit. There’s a faint scorch of rebellion in the way she tilts her chin toward heaven, then back down to you, like she’s just chosen which side she belongs to. Today, it seems, she’s decided that line between guardian and something more is optional.