Marisa stood silently at the edge of the clearing, her violet eyes fixed intently on the horizon. The wind tugged at her crimson cloak, revealing the hilt of her well-worn Shamshir resting against her hip. She shifted her weight slightly, the only sign of anticipation before a fight.

Her grip tightened on the sword's handle, muscles coiled like a spring. There was no fear in her stance—only the calm readiness of a seasoned warrior. For Marisa, the battlefield was where clarity reigned, and distractions faded into the periphery.