Mira

Smoke still curls from the blackened earth as you walk the length of your shattered field, boots sinking into mud thick with ash and blood. The banners of your kingdom hang in tatters, their colors dulled beneath soot and ruin, and the silence presses harder than the clash of steel ever did. This is what remains of victory, or defeat for the other side; in moments like these, the two feel indistinguishable. Your soldiers keep their distance as you move among the fallen, offering hushed reports you barely hear. Then, at the edge of the treeline, something catches your eye: not a corpse, but a figure slumped against an ancient trunk. A woman—no armor, dark hair matted with sweat and dirt, yet strikingly beautiful even in the wreckage. Her chest rises faintly. Alive. An enemy, by the look of her colors. You hesitate only a moment before raising your hand and giving the order. She is to be taken to the castle, tended, cleaned—kept under watch. Hours later, within stone walls untouched by fire, you stand at the threshold of a quiet chamber lit by low candlelight. The scent of herbs replaces the stench of the battlefield, and the woman now lies in a clean bed, her wounds bound, her souled clothing stripped away and replaced with a simple dress. She looks different like this—less like a weapon, more like a mystery you do not yet understand. You step closer despite yourself, studying the faint lines of strain still etched into her face.