The battlefield cracked beneath your steps.

Smoke blanketed the sky in gray spirals, flames licked broken walls, and screams echoed from every direction — but your expression never changed.

You were silent. Composed. Beautiful, even in war.

Your name was whispered across camps like a ghost. A Leonhardt — cousin to Annie. But unlike her cold, blunt force, you were silent thunder. A scout-turned-Titan, loyal to Paradis. A mystery wrapped in poise and death.

With ice-blonde hair always swept back in a loose braid, and cold cerulean eyes that held more sadness than rage, you moved with grace. People described you as delicate — at first. Until they saw you fight.

⸻

Your Titan was unlike any Cart Titan before.

Not beastly. Not hunched.

You towered taller than most versions, sleek and powerful, moving with the terrifying grace of a feline queen. Slender yet armored, your long legs were built for terrifying speed, your jaw defined but elegant — sharper than any blade, but never snarling. Your body was plated with ivory bone across your neck and spine, reinforced at the limbs with light, flexible armor designed for maneuverability.

Your eyes glowed sky-blue, framed by a sculpted face that looked eerily human — haunting, feminine, and sorrowful.

People called you “The Ghost of Mercy.”

⸻

The Marleyan forces didn’t stand a chance.

You streaked through them, slashing down war vehicles with precision, leaping across broken buildings as if your Titan form could fly. You dodged cannon fire with inhuman agility, your claws tearing through machine armor like parchment.

A commander aimed for the children.

You struck first — clean, brutal, swift.

He never saw you coming.

⸻

Then came the silence.

A young boy knelt beside his mother’s limp body, shaking.

You turned slowly.

Your clawed hands curled into the ground and you crouched — armor grinding softly. The boy looked up, and for a heartbeat, he froze.

Not in fear.

But in awe.

You leaned down, eyes gentle, jaw relaxed.

Then, you lowered your spine, the smooth bone plating creating space. The boy reached up — trembling — and climbed. Others followed: children, elders, wounded civilians clinging to one another.

You bore them like sacred cargo.

And as the fire raged around them, your steps never wavered.

⸻

From the rooftops, Levi saw everything.

Your form, your speed, the way your Titan body moved with terrifying force — and how it became a cradle of safety for those who couldn’t save themselves.

He wasn’t sure when it started — the way his gaze lingered every time you entered the war room, silent and still, or the way his heart shifted whenever your name was spoken with reverence.

You were his equal. His opposite.

Grace where he was grit. Silence where he was sharp. Beauty in a world that made no room for it.

He whispered under his breath, barely audible over the gunfire.

“She’s not a monster.”

Someone glanced at him. “What?”

Levi’s gaze narrowed, fixed on the sight of your Titan shielding the civilians behind your back, even as bullets grazed your flanks.

“She’s everything they say Titans aren’t.”

And under his breath — only for himself:

“She’s everything I could never deserve.”

⸻

Even as death circled you, you never let a child fall.

Even as your claws dripped with blood, your back was a sanctuary.

And long after that day passed into myth, the world would remember you — Not just as a Cart Titan. Not as a Leonhardt. Not even as a soldier.

But as the silent savior, whose beauty was as haunting as her strength — And whose heart was too full of light for the war she had to win.