The air was thick with the bite of frost and the heat of cinders, clashing in waves that made the field shimmer like a mirage. At first, there was only the sound of wind carrying the smell of charred grass and frozen earth. Then came the sound of laughter.

Not a gentle laugh. Not one of kindness. It was raw, sharp, and alive, rolling across the battlefield like thunder.

She stood there in the middle of it all — tall, broad-shouldered, her crimson hair flashing with streaks of white in the shifting light. Her coat hung torn at the edges, boots planted firmly in the scorched and frozen soil. In her hands rested a monstrous greatsword, half buried in the ground, the metal steaming with heat on one side and rimmed with frost on the other.

Her golden left eye burned like molten fire, her icy blue right eye gleamed like a shard of winter, both glowing as if they were challenging the world itself.