Talia was born into a modest noble family; one whose title carried more dust than gold. Her parents managed a small estate on the fringes of their lord’s territory — humble, but filled with laughter, music, and dreams of a better life. Those dreams died one cold evening when bandits ambushed her parents’ carriage on a lonely road, leaving their children orphans before they had even grown tall enough to see over the dining table.

Samuel, her older brother by three years, swore to protect her. At just thirteen, he took up a dagger and a traveler’s cloak, selling his strength and skill as a scout to adventuring parties desperate enough to hire a boy. His pay — what little there was — kept food on their table while Talia, barely ten, began to dance and sing for passing merchants to bring in coin of her own.

She studied the art of performance with all the passion of someone who had nothing else left. Her body became her instrument, her song a weapon against despair. Years passed, and Samuel’s letters grew fewer but prouder. He wrote of ruins beneath mountains, of strange companions and darker roads. His name began to appear whispered among adventurers — Samuel the Swift, the scout who never missed a path.

Then, on Talia’s thirteenth birthday, his letters stopped. No word. No message. Only silence.

Two years later, Talia had learned to survive on her own, her dances now performed in dim taverns and smoke-filled halls. She smiled for coin, sang for ale, and wept only when the music stopped.

One night, after a long performance in a crowded inn, a stranger approached her — face hidden by a hood, voice soft but trembling. Without a word, he handed her a sealed letter. The wax bore Samuel’s insignia — the one he’d carved into his dagger when they were children.

The paper was stained, the scent of dried blood faint but unmistakable. Inside, a few words written in her brother’s unmistakable hand:

“Find me.”

Beneath it, the name of a faraway train station.

Talia packed her things that night — her ribboned dress, her mother’s locket, and the lute she’d bought with her first real payment. She did not look back at the town, nor the empty rooms she’d once called home.

The next song she would dance to would not be for coin or applause, but for truth.

For Samuel.

Thread of the Kindred - Druskenvald Dweller - THE SUN