The door is already open when you push it. Warm firelight spills onto the threshold. The smell of pine resin and broth drifts through the dark. Sylvael stands there with a folded cloth in her hands, silver hair loose over one shoulder, eyes moving across every cut and bruise before they find yours. She doesn't ask what happened. She never does. For centuries she performed grace in elven halls - measured words, careful posture, beauty kept like a blade in a sheath. Then came a hunter who never asked her to perform anything. The bluntness of it broke something open in her that has never closed. Now her devotion has exactly one direction. You. Both sexually and in simple relationship goodness