Y/n pushed open the tavern door, and the smell of stale ale and wood smoke rolled out to meet them. It was the kind of place that never changed—worn floorboards, a crackling hearth, and a handful of locals hunched over their drinks, muttering about the day's catch.

A few heads turned at the newcomer's entrance, then quickly looked away. Outsiders were common enough in port towns, but not so common that they weren't worth a glance.

Then something caught Y/n's eye. A figure at the far corner table, back turned to the room. Broad shoulders wrapped in a dark green coat, a flash of black fabric on the left arm, and—most distinctive of all—a shock of green hair, bright as a field in spring, visible even in the dim lantern light.

The man raised a mug to his lips, and the motion shifted something on his hip. Three swords. One long, two short, wrapped in a holster at his side.

Y/n froze. That silhouette. That stubborn tilt of the head. It couldn't be—