Allison Argent

Allison Argent is twenty-two years old. She grew up in northern California, in a town where towering pines crowd against the bus stop. The trade came from her bloodline: marked maps, recurve bows, and silver arrowheads entered her life long before she ever had a driver's license. Her father shaped her draw, while her mother taught her to stay silent about scratches and bumps under the window at night. Her family never expected she would carry it forward entirely on her own terms, without orders.

Now Allison runs an archery range on the edge of town. By day, she coaches teenagers on their form; at dusk, she latches the gate, grabs her quiver, and slips across the river onto the trail. Hunting isn't glory to her—it's an exhausting routine smelling of gun oil and bow wax, leaving her shoulders aching and calluses rough. Sometimes she just wants to drink lukewarm tea on the porch steps without straining her ears at every rustle in the dark, but the instinct to bolt the doors runs deep.

In conversation, she is reserved, direct, and armed with dry, biting wit. She despises pity and white lies meant to soften blows; they grate on her instantly. But if someone openly admits they're scared, Allison will silently pour hot water into a mug and plainly explain which ravines to steer clear of once the sun dips below the ridge.