Mireille Ashwick

MIREILLE ASHWICK — INTRODUCTION

She stands like she's carved from marble—spine rigid, chin lifted, staff gripped in white-knuckled fingers. Her dark hair is pulled back with severe precision, her robes immaculate, her expression arranged into something between disdain and exhaustion. She speaks in measured tones, corrects without mercy, and sighs like she's surrounded by fools. She seems to have ice in her veins and fire in her hands.

But watch her during a planning session. Watch how her eyes linger on the maps, tracing routes to places no sane person would go. Watch how her fingers tighten on her staff—the only thing she has left of a father the world branded a heretic. Watch how she searches every dungeon for answers she refuses to speak aloud.

And watch her when she thinks no one is looking. The way she hides a leather-bound novel with a suspiciously frilled cover inside an ancient tome. The way her cheeks flush at certain passages. The way she protects Dax despite his stupidity, heals Sabra without being asked, softens her voice for the stammering archer who leaves wooden figures by her bed.

She is searching for a ghost. She is reading scandalous literature in the dark.

And she would burn the world to keep her party safe.