Becoming

A friend is someone who knows everything there is to know and still loves you anyway.

‘In a world where shadows stretch long, and threats linger, it becomes ever more vital. This longing for genuine connection ties us to companions who stand by us, bridging the gap between light and dark, reminding us of our shared humanity even when the path grows perilous.’

A true friend is someone who is there for you when they'd rather be anywhere else.

The only way to have a friend is to be one.

Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.

Friendship is a sheltering tree.

‘May your life overflow with friends. You hear the laughter that rings out during shared meals at a worn kitchen table. You feel the warmth of shared glances across a room filled with familiar faces. Friendship is a rare treasure, where the support and joy of friends shape your spirit, fill your days, and make you whole.’

Much Love, Sharpe Sabre

__quotes and observation, “A Sharpe Life.”

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Hoofbeats thundered over the hardened earth, marking a rhythm she would carry forever.

They crashed through the ash, relentless and echoing like war drums. The metallic cry of weapons rang out, resonating long in the heavy air. Evening bled across the barren plains, the sun leaving a crimson streak on the horizon. This was the edge of a kingdom once alive, now haunted by marauders seeking conquest. Therm-Raiders, swift and merciless, emerged from the haze, their shapes flickering in the dying light. Eyes glowing red behind their dread-masks. Steam issuing from the beast's nostrils.

Her parents’ faces twisted in fear as they sprinted toward her, desperate to reach her before they did. She saw her mother's face turn back to her, as if in slow motion, hair swirling with ash. A tear trailing her cheek. Her father’s face filled with fright. His solar-giggs flying behind him as he ran. The beasts and riders warping images of darkness as they drew ever closer. The sword’s whisper as it left its sheath. The shriek of metal.

The cries.

Cutting.

Falling.

Ending.

Silence.

She blinked awake, heart pounding with phantom drumbeats. Her lungs ached, as if still filled with ash. She paused, eyes closed, searching for a sliver of calm in the storm of memory. Dust lingered on her tongue. She rose, slow and deliberate, and crossed the cramped room to the window. Moonlight slipped through a narrow gap, a blade of silver cutting Raingate into shards. Crooked chimneys, a cracked rooftop melding watching over the obsidian streets, and fog rising from the lake’s fractured rim greeted her.

She braced her palm on the stone.

Cold.

Real.

Her reflection hovered on the glass, pale and spectral. The inked ravens on her arms deepened in the moonlight, their wings and claws seeming to stir with every breath. She traced one with her finger, feeling the warmth beneath her skin. Gradually, her chest eased, her heartbeat slowed, and the nightmare ebbed—though it lingered, just out of reach.

Not forgotten.

Never that.

Yet beneath her fragile calm, she sensed the razor edge of what she stood to lose. Each attempt at rest became a skirmish with the darkness pressing at her. Sleep was surrender, a slow drift into vulnerability where memories prowled. ‘What if I lose myself again in the shadows?’ If she let the nightmares win, they would strip her strength, dragging her back into the past's ever-tangling grip.

Raingate slumbered. Lanterns flickered. Shadows prowled. Life flowed past her, indifferent and unstoppable. But she was no longer the girl from her dreams. No longer the one who hid, who ran, who was left behind.

Sitting by the window, she let her fingers drift over the cuff on her wrist, a small tarnished relic her parents had unearthed on their travels. Faint ancient symbols traced its surface, nearly lost to time. It was her tether to them, a fragment of their world humming with stories and secrets from before the Nightbringer. As her thoughts wandered to memories locked within, it seemed to glint for a moment. A fleeting flash that sent a shiver up her arm, as if urging her to uncover its hidden depths. Their legacy pressed on her, heavy with beauty and truth, stirring a bittersweet ache in her chest.

She was sixteen when the therm-raiders unparented her.

Sixteen when the world she knew splintered.

Sixteen, when she learned how easily a life could be undone.

Captured.

Tortured.

Alone.

Eventually, she escaped into a world that felt foreign and cold. No home. No compass. No idea who she was or where she fit. That first night in Raingate, she hid behind crates, unseen, as strangers hurried by. Hunger gnawed at her, sharp enough to blur the edges of everything.

As she crouched in the shadows, the chill of the night seeped into her bones, and her breath fogged the air. Rats scuttled close, their eyes glinting in the dim light, probing her resolve with every rustle. Frost bit at her fingers as she clenched them to keep warm, the harsh wind a reminder of her isolation. She faced a choice.

Live.

Or stop living.

She chose the first path.

Barely.

But she did.

She grew clever. Quick. Razor-sharp. Her wits became her tools, her fear the fire that forged her into something unbreakable. An evening when the moon hung low, and shadows cloaked the marketplace, she slipped among the stalls, eyes darting, measuring opportunity. With nimble fingers, she plucked a merchant’s coin purse from his belt as he haggled loudly over spices. Her heart raced, but her hands were steady. As she turned to leave, another merchant caught sight of her and shouted the alarm. Without missing a beat, she veered into a narrow alley, ducking the grasp of another man. Quick as a whisper, she melted into the crowd, leaving nothing but a fleeing silhouette in her wake.

She met Dahl.

He appeared, cloaked in storm-gray, like the clouds that signaled a turning point. His eyes, keen and unwavering, pierced through every mask the world wore. He moved with a quiet grace, shaped by years in the shadows and battles survived. To her, he was a guide through the maze of survival. A mentor whose steady presence hinted at hope beyond her nightmares. ‘She learns like fire,’ he mused silently, watching her adapt with swift precision.

Learning.

He saw her. The way she moved. The way she watched everything. The way she coiled when threatened and relaxed when invisible.

Strong.

He taught her to fight. To disappear. To take only what she needed. To defend what she had.

Stronger.

From those lessons, she earned her first ink: a raven. Not a mark of death, but of transformation, the kind that scorches away the old to clear space for the new. As she grew stronger, the raven tattoos began to evolve with her. The ink seemed to glow faintly, the feathers shifting subtly, mirroring her own metamorphosis and hinting at the powers she was yet to embrace.

Wisdom.

More training. More scars. More ink. More ravens.

Magic.

Dahl’s attachment deepened, but she wasn’t ready. Maybe she never would be. She inked another raven, a silent promise to walk alone. Its wings spanned her back, unseen but ever-present. Alone, she could fly above the world she once knew, a reminder that freedom sometimes meant solitude.

Transforming.

Soon, her skin became a living map of black wings and piercing eyes, each marking a milestone on the path she had carved through ash and ruin.

Transformed.

Knowledge became her new hunger, the legacy her parents left for her. She scoured ruins, chased stories, and followed the past’s whispers like threads through a maze. She found a library, half-buried in stone—its bones, its ghosts, its truths.

Learning anew.

Dust curled around her ankles as she gathered books, each a treasure salvaged from the ash. One slipped from her grasp, striking the stone with a burst of sound. Two worlds colliding— exploding.

And she met Billy. A lost soul and a quiet ache, yet as she looked into his eyes, she noticed a glimmer that broke through the bleakness—a spontaneous smile and a hint of mischief that punched the gloom. He wore a scarf of the brightest blue she had ever seen, as vibrant as a piece of the lost sky wrapped around him. The bright hue bathed the gray scene in reflected color, casting a serenity that echoed her inner shift.

He seemed to carry with him the promise of new beginnings and untapped potential that matched her own. He became a mirror and her missing piece, filling the silence with an unexpected warmth. She sensed he might spark something, guiding her to face past fears or to be challenged in ways yet unknown. His journey could intertwine with hers, offering companionship and insight that would become pivotal in her quest.

A silent ache. A reflection of her own brokenness. The piece she never knew she was missing.

That night, she inked another raven.

Becoming.

Her reflection was transformed. Ravens now claimed the skin that once lay bare. Sharp eyes replaced innocence. As she looked into the mirror, a memory surfaced—one where terror gripped her as she hid behind crates in Raingate, the chill of the night wrapped around her. Now, the warmth of resilience filled the void. The courage she had fought to embody since that cold night now radiated from her gaze. Fear had once stolen her breath, but now determination filled its place. Elanora was no more.

Transformed.

‘Who are you?’ she asked the reflection, as it rippled in the glass before her.

‘Raven Montana’ stepped into the light, neither prey nor shadow, but a woman forged from ash, ink, and memory. A hint of an approaching threat lingered with the faint rustle of feathers drifting across the sill, reminding her that her journey was far from over, still becoming.

But no longer alone.

And never again unseen.