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The dream is fuzzy.

She's in a place she associates with joy. A clearing in some forest. Smoke and the smell of alcohol and roasting meat fills the air.

The young she-elf is still in her armor. Now that the fight is done, the sweat-drenched clothing is starting to feel cold. Blood and mud covers the linen-like material of her pants. With a sharp exhale the woman drops the bag of loot she’s carrying. For the first time since yesterday evening, her quivering fingers grab the helmet on her head. They find grip on the metal feathers coming out of the side, and with more effort than it should take, her hands lift the helmet of polished bronze off her head. With a quiet dong, the helmet that marks its wearer as a healer is dropped on the floor. Her mother would kill her if she saw her drop this priceless family heirloom from the good old days on the floor like that, but the young elven woman doesn't care. Her nose hurts where the helmet rested on it, and with a dull thud she drops onto a fallen tree. It feels good to sit. She opens her belt and loosens the straps that hold her leather armor onto her body. A crossbow bolt is still stuck in the leather, right over her left lung. The leather stopped the sniper's missile, though just barely. She can feel the iron tip brush against her skin as she peels the mixture of leather and fur off her body. The thin shirt underneath is drenched in sweat and as the cold wind blows against it, a shiver runs through her body. She quickly pulls it off, exposing her naked skin to the chilling winter wind. Next, her sore feet are dragged out of thick and stinking boots, and finally the blood-soaked pants lose contact with her legs. What was once a human woman’s green wedding dress now acts as a towel, wiping away the mud and sweat that clings to the elf’s pale skin. Without another thought, she drops the garment on the floor.

She stumbles past her friend, Tili, who is slowly unwrapping the black bandages that make up most of her scouting armor. On a nearby tree, the auxiliaries have prepared fresh clothes. As a healer, she is one of the last to leave the battlefield, but tradition, and basic decency, dictate that the best clothes are to be left for those who come home last. The Patriarch of her house watches his warriors undress, bloody hammer still in hand. His pale face is covered in mud and blood, but his eyes are still alive with the unnatural vigor of the Golden Invocation. As she passes him, a hand slams into her shoulder. “Well done out there. Your mother taught you well.”

The young woman’s sensitive skin burns from the impact, but she just stumbles towards the fresh clothes without a reply. Unlike his, her body is not infused with powerful magic and she just wants something to wear. The armor was like a prison, but walking around naked is still a bit weird. As she grabs a simple white dress that smells of soap, she hears him praise the next warrior behind her. The elf quickly pulls the garment over her head, puts on a pair of leather slippers, and steps into the camp.

She's been through several skirmishes, helped burn down a village, and nearly knocked herself unconscious healing the wounded, yet the pounding in her chest infuses her body with new energy. Her eyes fall onto a fallen tree that has been turned into a makeshift bench, and with quivering steps, her legs carry her to it.

She waits, anticipation coursing through her veins like fire.

The reason for her excitement is a man named Fohr. A male elf from House Lorthan. The village they attacked had ten Black Ones there. The group of human mages helped the villagers and soldiers in the fight against their attack. The elves ultimately won, but it cost them. A few were killed and even more wounded, Fohr among them.

She’s not sure exactly how it happened, but he must’ve gotten too close to one of the human fire mages or one of their fireballs. She's not too familiar with fire magic, aside from the fact that it easily overloads force fields and that the wounds it causes are hard to heal. The Black Ones’ fire mage blasted Fohr with flames and turned most of his front into charcoal. Novi spent most of her time healing him. When he woke up, he looked at her all starry-eyed. They talked a bit and he promised to challenge her tonight.

Part of her doesn’t believe he'll actually go through with it. The other part prays to all gods and spirits that he will. When she was a little girl, her grandfather and grandmother told her about the time before the Northborn Curse. In those old times, it was rare to not find a partner. Her mother was one of the first generations born after the defeat of the Destroyer. While her grandmother married her grandfather, her own mother wasn't so lucky. Novi isn’t sure she'll ever find anyone either. Her heart pounds in the hope that Fohr was serious.

It's already getting late. Her doubts intensify.

She tries to distract herself.

Her friend is sitting next to her, eating meat off a bone. Novi wants to eat too, but her stomach feels too knotted up to take anything.

She watches the Patriarchs of both their houses while they talk to the nearby dragon-trader. The dragon watches his servant, a small kobold with gray fur, tell the two elves something that’s apparently extremely interesting. Occasionally, the massive red beast says something in its growl-like language, and every time it does, its servant pauses, then translates his master’s words for the elves.

The dragon is a rather small one. Novi can see its fur glisten in the firelight.

She feels the urge to touch it, but has too much respect for the fire-breathing monster to actually do it. Dragons are known to be extremely arrogant and conceited. This particular dragon looks young. The pouches of treasure strapped all over his body are probably all he has. Through the kobold, he will trade them for food and for other trinkets and baubles to add to his collection.

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Their Patriarchs are probably selling a few things, including the corpses of those they've killed, to the dragon in exchange for gold and information.

She watches them talk until she sees someone out of the corner of her eye.

It's Fohr and he's coming straight towards her. Her heart almost rips her chest open.

He's not wearing armor.

In fact, the only thing he is wearing is a pair of loose linen pants. Probably part of today’s haul. The skin on the left part of his chest and abdomen still looks pink and slightly scarred from being burned.

His face is square, with small lips and a large nose. His cream-white hair reaches down to the small of his back. He had it in a ponytail during the battle, but now it falls freely.

He's not as tall as some of the other elves and perhaps not the most handsome either, but Novi doesn’t care. His figure more than makes up for it. Years of both training and the extreme physical stress the use of magic causes, have built up muscles that are easily visible beneath his skin. His slender elven frame makes them stand out even more. It’s the body of a proper force mage.

She has to bite her teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Hello, Novi,” he says.

Her friend drops her meat and stares at them. Fohr stands there, staring at Novi.

According to ancient tradition, a man would prove his worth to a woman and test her strength by challenging her to a fight. If he beat her, he would be worthy and they could marry. He would ask her if he was worthy and she would attack him to find out.

He's just standing in front of her now. Doing nothing.

He's obviously come to challenge her, or he wouldn’t be half-naked. Then again, it could be some elaborate ruse to humiliate her. If she challenged him and he didn’t accept, she would humiliate herself in front of everyone. Yet if he said yes, she would be one of the lucky few who had someone that was truly theirs.

Novi decides to end the awkward silence by slapping him. Everyone around them stops to look at them. “Prove your worth.” Novi gives him a yes to a question he is yet to ask. He didn’t expect the attack, but doesn’t flinch. A smile creeps across his face.

For a moment Novi is sure he will tell her to sod off. She's sure he's about to laugh at the fact that she thought she was special. To ask what makes her think a lowly life mage – and not even a particularly skilled one at that – should be anyone's one and only.

“Let’s go.” He waves towards a nearby clearing. His shyness, or whatever that just was, has evaporated.

Her ears ring and her stomach feels like a solid slab of stone as she follows him to the clearing. She’s aware that a small crowd is following them.

An old elven man is waiting for them. He’s wearing the skull of a stag as a helmet. Novi doesn’t recognize him, so he must be from Fohr's house.

He looks her up and down. She realizes she is still fully dressed. As quickly as she can, she takes off her dress. Then the old man waves for them to stand at opposite ends of the clearing. She can feel the eyes of everyone on her and hear her own heartbeat as she walks into position.

‘This is it,’ she thinks.

Once they stand opposing each other, the old man says, “Fohr, Novi is prepared to test your strength. Prove you are worth more than a glance by beating her in combat. No magic, otherwise do what you will. Now get ready.”

Novi wants to say some witty taunt, but the words get stuck in her throat. She considers just letting Fohr win, but shakes that thought out of her head. No one likes a weakling. She will fight properly.

Fohr's face has turned dead serious. His voice deep and low, he says, “Let's do this.”

As soon as they’re ready, the man says, “Fight,” and takes a few steps back.

Fohr immediately charges with his head down and arms open. Novi braces for the tackle, ready to counter his attack. Too late does she see through his trick. Right before reaching her, he suddenly straightens back up and spartan-kicks her in the chest.

The attack knocks the wind out of her and causes her to stumble back. In an attempt to capitalize on his successful kick, Fohr lurches forward to grapple her. Even though she can barely breathe, Novi is not stunned enough to not counter his attack. As he tries to grapple her around the neck, she dodges and grabs his shoulder. If she manages to pull him down, she could twist his arm back and essentially win. Of course, he won't be embarrassed that easily and pushes her back before she can pull him forward.

Now it’s Novi’s turn to attack. As soon as she regains her balance, she kicks him in the side. He jumps back to dodge, then jumps forward for a normal punch. She dodges it and retaliates with a punch of her own. Committed to his own strike, he is unable to block and her fist connects with his face with full force, forcing him back. Novi immediately punches again. This time he manages to intercept the blow. As he tries to push her down into a headlock, she manages to turn his own arm up and over her shoulder.

Someone in the crowd yells, “Fohr. Are you serious?”

With one quick move, Novi manages to grab his head and tries to slam it down on her knee. If the move works, she could repeat it until he is knocked out, but she has underestimated his strength. He manages to catch himself before his head makes contact with her knee, and with a roar like a bear, he pulls himself back up.

The sudden force causes Novi to lose her balance.

Fohr throws himself at her with a wild lunge. She isn’t fast enough to react to it. His body slams into hers, throwing them both to the ground.

“Come on, Fohr, show her what you got!” someone else yells.

To stop him from pinning her to the ground, Novi punches him in the face.

A mistake.

While the hard blow takes his breath away, the punch allows him to drop down on her and use his body weight to lock down her arm. While he uses one hand to hold down her other arm, he uses his free arm to put her into an inelegant but effective chokehold. They struggle for a while until Novi feels herself running out of air. Knowing that he has won, she relaxes.

Fohr feels the resistance against his grip fade and immediately releases his chokehold.

“You are worthy,” Novi croaks. He immediately lets go and allows himself to drop to the ground. While the others cheer, they both lie on the forest floor, gasping for air.

Their kin help them up, while the old elven man yells, “Fohr has proven that he is worthy of Novi. So, it is the will of the gods that they be together. Does anyone wish to challenge this?”

Novi sees her mother in the crowd surrounding them. This is her chance to challenge Fohr if she doesn’t approve of him. But she's smiling ear to ear.

The next question is whether Novi will join Fohr’s house and travel with them, or if he will join House Oritoris. That is a question their Patriarchs will have to concern themselves with though. Right now, she’s far more interested in Fohr, who leans in for a passionate kiss.