The battlefield rose from the ashes. The cracked stones and vibrant air seemed to hold their breath—as if even the wind and shadows were curious to know who would fall first.
Roxanne calmly stood, wiping the blood from her lip with her thumb. The smile she gave Ingrid wasn't teasing. It was respect.
The kind of respect only two wounded and proud warriors can exchange without words.
The wind still whispered around Roxanne, but now there was a different weight to it—no longer light and playful, but sharp, disciplined. The same breeze that once danced now watched silently, ready to kill if she asked.
On the other side, Ingrid breathed deeply, the shadows billowing like living smoke around her. The black katana pulsed as if it were part of her body, each heartbeat echoing in the blade.
She could taste iron in her mouth, sweat mixed with dust.
And, above all, she felt alive.
The rage still burned, but now it was controlled—molded into purpose.
Roxanne took the first step.
