Greymire wasn’t worth the mud on her boots.

Eleanor Valquinn stood at the edge of the town square, her sharp eyes sweeping over the cluster of rickety houses and uneven streets, barely concealing her disgust. The mist clung stubbornly to the ground, mixing with the stench of wet earth and unwashed bodies, while the villagers bustled about in their dull, patched clothes, blissfully unaware of the greatness that had descended among them.

She was in Lorthraine. A backward, insufferable country that had always made her skin crawl. The very fact that she had to step onto this forsaken soil—this miserable place so far beneath her station—was enough to make her blood boil.

To make matters worse, she now had to lower herself even further by pretending to be civil, asking questions of people who could barely string two thoughts together without stumbling.

And all for Elnora.

She had heard the rumors. Ellie Liddell, the mysterious adventurer—brimming with magic, valor, and enough daring feats to stir the imaginations of these simpletons—was the town’s new favorite tale. Her, of all people.

Eleanor could scarcely believe it. The idea that Elnora—of all people—could be mistaken for some legendary hero was absurd, laughable even. Yet no matter whom she asked, the same infuriating answers came back.

“Ellie Liddell? Ah, you must be a fan!” they would say, their eyes lighting up with admiration as if they were speaking of some mythical figure.

Or worse, they would launch into glowing accounts of Ellie’s latest exploits—how she had single-handedly fought off a beast in the northern mountains, or performed miracles unheard before. Eleanor’s stomach twisted with each word, the stories growing more ridiculous with every retelling.

Ridiculous, she thought, suppressing the urge to sneer openly at the villagers. The idea that her delicate, ineffectual sister—who had barely managed the simplest spells—could be running around as some adventurer was beyond comprehension. And yet... somehow, Elnora had survived.

But if she was playing at this little charade, Eleanor would put an end to it. She had not traveled through the muck of Lorthraine just to indulge her sister’s fantasies. No, she would drag Elnora back to the estate—kicking and screaming if necessary—and restore the order that had always existed between them.

Her gaze sharpened as she spotted a small group of men huddled near the entrance of the adventurers’ guild—the epicenter of this nonsensical cult of Ellie Liddell. The men were laughing, jostling one another with that easy camaraderie of those who believed they were in on some grand joke.

Eleanor strode toward them, her every step deliberate, the heels of her boots clicking sharply against the cobblestones. The mist seemed to tremble beneath her, as if it sensed the fury simmering just below the surface.

The men glanced up as she approached, their laughter fading as they eyed her with mild curiosity. She could see them sizing her up—this elegant, sharp-eyed woman who clearly didn’t belong in a place like this. They were no doubt wondering if she was just another wide-eyed admirer, here to swoon over their town’s newest heroine.

“You there,” she snapped, her voice as sharp as her gaze. “Where can I find Ellie Liddell?”

The tallest of the men, a grizzled fighter with a scar running across his cheek, smirked at her. “Ellie Liddell? You a fan, miss? Most folk who come lookin’ for her are.” His eyes gleamed with amusement, clearly finding the idea of someone like her trailing after a local hero amusing.

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Eleanor’s jaw tightened, the muscles in her neck stiffening as she fought the urge to slap the smirk off his face. She didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have the patience for it.

“I’m her sister.” She let the words land like a cold stone dropped into a still pond. Silence rippled through the group, the man’s smirk faltering for the briefest moment before he recovered.

“Her sister, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, though his grin had faded into something more cautious. “Don’t see much resemblance. Ellie’s a bit more...” He gestured vaguely, clearly searching for a delicate word. “Quieter. Not as, uh, fierce as you.”

Eleanor’s gaze turned icy. “No one asked for your opinion on our resemblance,” she hissed, stepping closer. “I’ve come to bring her home. This—” she waved a hand toward the dreary village around her, the pathetic little square with its creaking houses and muddy streets “—is a distraction she can’t afford.”

The fighter raised an eyebrow, the wariness deepening in his expression. “Well, you’ll be disappointed then. Ellie’s not here. She’s off on a mission for Lord Ryven, takin’ care of some nasty business in the ancient ruins. You’ll have to wait if you want to see her.”

“Lord Ryven?” Eleanor’s lips parted slightly, her expression darkening with intrigue. She had heard of him—Greymire’s ruthless, pragmatic lord. The fact that he had entrusted Elnora with a mission raised troubling questions.

“Aye, hired her for somethin’ dangerous,” the man continued, scratching his chin. “Ellie volunteered to take care of it. Not that anyone was surprised.”

Eleanor blinked, caught off-guard. Volunteered? Elnora had never volunteered for anything in her life. She had always been too timid, too afraid of making the wrong choice. The very idea was preposterous.

“She volunteered?” Eleanor repeated, her voice low with disbelief.

The man nodded, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s Ellie for you. Quiet, but she’s got guts. Took out a monster up in the mines a few weeks back—rescue mission. Took down a beast that no one else could handle. Guess that’s why Lord Ryven figured she was the one for the job.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, the nails digging into her palms. The way these people spoke of Ellie—as if her fragile, unremarkable sister had somehow transformed into a fearless warrior—made her blood boil. This was all wrong. The Elnora she knew could never have done such things. And yet...

A gnawing doubt had begun to creep into her mind, like a whisper she could not silence. Was it possible? Could Elnora have become someone else, truly shed the skin of her past and built a new life here? As much as she loathed the idea, Eleanor couldn’t help but feel unsettled by how earnestly these villagers spoke of Ellie Liddell—as if she were something more than a mere story. As if they had seen it with their own eyes.

“Where is Lord Ryven?” Eleanor’s voice was colder now, her irritation barely concealed.

The fighter gestured toward the north. “At his manor, up in the hills. But I doubt he’ll have much time for conversation.”

Eleanor barely acknowledged his words as she turned sharply on her heel, already heading toward the manor. She would get answers from Lord Ryven himself, and if Elnora was here—if Ellie was truly the woman these people claimed she was—Eleanor would put an end to this foolishness. She would tear down the illusion these idiots had built around her sister.

But as she walked away, the fighter called after her, his voice cutting through the mist. “If you’re waitin’ for Ellie, you might want to know—she’s become somethin’ of a legend around here. People look up to her. A lot of us owe her our lives.”

Eleanor froze mid-step, her back stiffening. Slowly, she turned her head, her voice dripping with venom. “I’m not interested in legends.”

The man shrugged, his expression unreadable now. “Maybe you should be.”

Eleanor’s lips thinned into a hard line, but she said nothing more. As she marched toward Lord Ryven’s manor, her mind churned with confusion and doubt. Could these people really be speaking of Elnora? The girl who had cowered at the sight of her own shadow, who had been so afraid of failure she could barely speak her mind, was now some sort of... hero?

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. And yet, the more she heard, the more the doubt festered.

Maybe this Ellie Liddell was an entirely different person.

The thought gnawed at her as she walked, a whisper that refused to be silenced. Could it be possible? Could this woman everyone spoke of with such reverence, such admiration, truly have nothing to do with her sister at all? Was she chasing a phantom—another girl who had simply adopted a name too close for comfort?

Eleanor clenched her jaw. The more she considered it, the more absurd the entire situation became. Ellie Liddell, the hero of Greymire, might not be Elnora.

And if that was true... then where was her sister?