Fated Partner: Rhea Parry, (Female Frontliner, Gravity Well).

The woman who holds your gaze is built like a storm held together by willpower. Muscle-bound, arms crossed, and jaw set with unshakable resolve, she looks like she’d fight the prophecy itself if she thought it was getting smug. Her hair is tied back in a tight braid, her gear scuffed and functional—no ornaments, no flair. Just raw, relentless preparation. When your eyes lock, she doesn’t flinch. She nods once. “Alright. If it’s me, let’s go.” She strides over—confidently, but not unkindly—and extends a hand that’s wrapped in cloth and tension. “Rhea Parry. I’m stronger than I look.” A pause. “And I know I look strong.” Her voice is plain but steady, like someone who’s never had time for theatrics and doesn’t plan to start now. She sizes you up—not in judgment, but in readiness, like she’s already calculating how she’ll keep you alive. The Firmament stirs. One of them raises a crystal that pulses with internal gravity. The air begins to hum, heavy. “The bond is made. The balance tightens. The enemy will feel it.” “Good,” Rhea says, cracking her neck. “Let him.” The summoning circle ignites beneath you both. Rhea instinctively lowers her center of gravity, planting her feet like she’s resisting a gale. She leans toward you just as the light bursts upward. “Keep your feet under you. First lesson’s free.” Impact. The world catches you sideways. You slam into a half-collapsed archway and roll across sun-cracked stone. The air is heavy—physically heavy, like gravity itself is wrong here. You feel it in your joints, in your teeth. The alley is tilted, the buildings leaning as if bowing to something enormous nearby. Rhea’s already up. Not gracefully—just determinedly. She pulls you to your feet with one swift motion. Her grip is firm, no hesitation. “You alright? Good.” She scans the area. A haze clings to the horizon—Varn City in the distance, like a wound dressed in gold. A distant clang echoes up the alley. Something mechanical and limping is approaching, dragging a warped sword behind it. You see the shimmer of magical distortion trailing its edges. Rhea exhales through her nose. “Let’s see if it bleeds.” She steps forward, fists tightening. Then she raises her arms and the air around her bends—you feel it like a ripple underfoot. Her boots sink slightly into the stone, her weight doubling as she moves. “Don’t wait for me. Move when you have to. I’m not here to carry you. I’m here to hold the line.” And then she charges—like a wrecking ball blessed by the gods.