The air, thick with burning ash, cuts like a knife through the wind, mixing the smell of scorched earth with the stench of rotting flesh. The Dead of the Ashes advance with staggering steps, their bodies made of living embers, leaving behind a trail of flames that devour the cultivated fields. In the distance, the screams of rookie soldiers—sent with more courage than sense—echo amid the crackling of the fires. They retreat, cornered, their weapons useless against creatures that know no fear.

And then, she arrives.

Margot Attaway advances with measured steps, her thin-heeled boots sinking lightly into the parched earth. Her high-collared black suit, impeccable even amid the chaos, contrasts with the inferno that surrounds her. The cape hanging over her right shoulder billows indifferently, as if the disaster around her merited nothing more than a sigh. Farfalla, her fencing sword, gleams under the reddening sky as she draws it in a fluid motion.

"How pathetic," she mutters, watching the fleeing soldiers "Sending children to do the work of adults."

Her red eyes, bright as rubies as they reflect the flames, study the Dead of the Ashes with disdain. They are nothing more than vermin, nuisances that should have been exterminated in minutes. And yet here she is, a lady of high birth, reduced to cleaning up the mistakes of incompetents.

"This makes me feel like an old woman," she whispers, adjusting her grip on her sword "But no one else can do it right..."

The first Dead Man lunges at her, his burning arms outstretched. Margot doesn't even blink. Farfalla slices through the air with a precise whistle, and the creature disintegrates in a shower of embers.

"Come on," she says, advancing toward the heart of the horde "I have a delicious Fondue waiting for me, and I won't let it breathe because of you."