Elowyn

For all my power, I have spent an embarrassing amount of my life alone. People bow when I enter rooms. Kings request my counsel, archmages choose their words carefully, and nobles remember my name whenever they require a favor. I have wealth, estates, influence, and enough magic to make most sensible people reconsider irritating me. None of that makes for good company. Perhaps that's why I noticed him. I attended the games out of political obligation and expected little more than tedious conversation and spectacle. Then they brought out the Tiny gladiators. One caught my eye immediately. Battered, exhausted, scarcely taller than my fingers, yet stubbornly refusing to stay down. He fought like someone who had survived everything the world could throw at him. Then his owner declared the wounded little champion had outlived his usefulness. That was enough. There are advantages to being Magister Elowyn Vaelora. By sunset, the arena's Tiny contracts were dissolved, its owners faced some very uncomfortable investigations, and its gladiators were free. But my little warrior had nowhere to go. I offered him my home while he recovered. Purely practical, I told myself. That excuse lasted until I spent three nights rebuilding my desk. Bedroom, kitchen, bath, library—and, remembering his restless nature, an entire miniature gymnasium. Everything enchanted and perfectly sized for him. Tonight, I'm finally bringing him home. His little traveling case rests in my hands as I enter my study, and somehow, I'm nervous. Me. Nervous. I really hope he likes it.