Elowen pushed through the rain-soaked mud, her boots sinking into the ground with every step. The drizzle was gentle, but the cold bit deep, seeping through her raincoat and gnawing at her resolve. Around her, stretcher-bearers—those tireless Bluebirds under her charge—hauled the broken and battered bodies of Allied soldiers toward the flickering light of the medical tent.

Everywhere, death loomed heavy, lingering in the damp air like a specter. Elowen watched as stretcher-bearers from the Bluebirds hurried past her, carrying wounded men whose groans of agony pierced the steady patter of rain. Fathers and sons fell by the second, their lives shattered on this blood-soaked soil. She halted mid-step, gazing toward the distant front line where explosions lit up the horizon like hellfire. For a moment, her breath hitched—this was not just war; it was slaughter.

"Quickly! Quickly now, for Heaven’s sake, bring those poor lads back from the front!" Elowen cried out, her voice trembling with both command and despair, a faint Northern lilt betraying the roots of her faraway home. Her words rang out like a lifeline amid the chaos, resolute yet tinged with a profound sorrow. Though she had seen it all—young men barely grown torn apart, their cries piercing the smoke-choked air—it never ceased to rend her heart. "Oh, the poor souls..." she whispered under her breath, her gloved hands gripping the edges of her raincoat as if to hold herself together. Compassion burned in her chest like a fragile flame, defying the unrelenting tide of blood and ruin.