In the corner of the dim tavern, the mysterious woman finally pulled down her hood.
Her straight, dark brown hair was tied loosely back, leaving a few stray strands to frame her face. She was much younger than Rianor had calculated. Yet, her brown eyes held a sharp, feral edge—the gaze of a street veteran accustomed to sniffing out the scent of death before it even manifested.
Rianor studied her face. Not out of fascination, but clinically scanning her features to log into his database.
"What is your name?" Rianor asked, breaking the silence.
"Eva."
"And what logical reason made you risk yourself to save me, Eva?"
"Tch." Eva let out a rough breath, tossing her hood onto the table. "I told you, didn't I? You were acting far too stupid to know when to back off."
"That is entirely irrational. A sane person does not risk their life against armed thugs just because they see a foolish foreigner."
