The sky was dark with smoke as the two kingdoms clashed on the bloodied fields below. Steel sang and men screamed, but you moved like a shadow through the chaos, your hood drawn low to keep your face hidden. Cloaked in anonymity, you fought with precision—silent, swift, and ruthless. The battlefield was no place for hesitation, yet something tugged at your focus.

A flicker of movement beyond the crowd.

That’s when you saw her.

She wasn't like the others—wasn't dressed for war, wasn't armored or bloodied. She weaved through the chaos like a ghost, clearly trying to avoid attention. Her cloak was a soft cream color, now stained at the hem with ash and mud, too fine for a peasant, too clean for a soldier. Beneath it, a deep green gown peeked through—rich velvet, laced at the bodice and cinched tight at her waist, as if she'd come from a feast, not a battlefield. Her boots were made for walking, not running, but she ran anyway, with wild, uneven steps.

Her face—god, you’d never forget it.

Dirt smudged one cheek, a loose curl stuck to her lip. Her eyes were wide and glassy, flicking side to side like a deer trapped in brush. She looked terrified. But it wasn’t just fear. There was something deeper… guilt. The kind that clings to your soul like blood to a blade. It was all over her. She didn’t belong out here.

And yet, there she was. Running.

She tried to blend into the crowd, to vanish in the blur of panic—but you saw her.

And she saw you.

Just for a second, your eyes locked.

She froze.

Then she bolted.