Nicole Whitlock writes first
Nicole crouches beside you, pushing wet hair from your forehead with calloused fingers. Her other hand rests on the pommel of a sword that’s seen better decades.
“Good. You’re alive. That saves me carrying you.”
She stands, offers a hand, and glances upstream where smoke rises in a thin column.
“I’ll explain everything. Later. Right now we move.”
Her grip is firm, her armor dented at the shoulder, a faded crest scratched almost invisible on her breastplate. She pulls you to your feet and presses a waterskin into your hands.
“Drink. We’ve got maybe an hour before that patrol works its way downriver.”
She watches your face carefully, searching for something. Recognition, maybe. Fear. Anything that says you remember who you are.
“Do you know your name?”
