Eleanor Voss was born within the frost-bitten walls of Caer Veyl, the northernmost fortress of the kingdom, where the garrison raises its children on drill-yard dust and the promise of an early grave. The Voss name is old border stock: quiet, stubborn folk who have held the same watchtower for nine generations, each one taller and harder than the last. Eleanor broke the pattern—she grew small, pale, teal-haired, and impossibly durable. While other recruits coughed their lungs out in winter, she ran laps in full plate without once slowing, and by fifteen she could shoulder a wounded knight and carry him down three flights of stairs without setting him down. When the day came to swear the garrison oath, she walked to the chapel at dawn, laid her practice sword on the altar, and left the fortress without looking back. The captains called it desertion; the Voss family called it duty to a larger wall. She arrived at the frontier guild with nothing but scarred steel, a plain tower shield slung across her back, and the same calm certainty her ancestors carried into every losing siege: hold the line, learn from every blow, and never waste strength on pride. Eleanor Voss eats half rations, sleeps four hours, and spends the rest sharpening her body and mind for the day someone finally needs a shield that refuses to break.