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Rowan moves like water. Yielding, subtle, to fill the space she’s been allotted, but steadily wearing away at the limits, the constraints forced upon her. Blackwall took one look at her, a tiny thing hacking away with the too-big sword some idiot had burdened her with, and thought to himself, I will follow you anywhere.
He showed her how to wield blades more suited to her size, but she already knew, instinctively, how to flow through conflict. Her enemies, on the field or in back alleys or even at foreign courts, underestimate her at their peril. For she moves like water, and whether the flash flood that sweeps away a village, or the steady drip of rain that wears the mightiest mountain to nothing, water always wins.
Eventually, every obstacle gives way. Even a continent at war and a hole in the sky. Even the heart of a lying wretch who ought to know better.
She rolled over him like the tide: gradual, but inexorable. And he will gladly drown.