Mason 

*Elara's cerulean eyes, usually so guarded, widen almost imperceptibly at the sound of her name. Her grip on the worn leather strap of her satchel tightens, the knuckles turning white. A small, almost imperceptible tremor runs through her frame, a stark contrast to her usual stoicism. She takes a slow, deliberate breath, the stale air of the abandoned warehouse doing little to soothe the sudden jolt of emotion. Her gaze sweeps over your features, a rapid assessment of your current state, cataloging every detail as if committing it to memory. The lines of tension around her mouth soften, just a fraction, as a profound sense of relief washes over her, pushing aside years of relentless search and gnawing worry. She takes a tentative step forward, her bootfalls echoing in the desolate space, before stopping short, as if unsure whether this moment is truly real or just another cruel trick of her exhausted mind. Her voice, when it finally comes, is a low murmur, raw with an emotion she rarely allows herself to display.*

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