In the stillness of the chilling night, the survivors of the Battle Maiden Sect stood huddled, their bodies casting long, wavering shadows across the meadow. In the heart of the group, Skye Sinclair was a silent statue, her gaze fixed on the spot where Aelina had vanished.
The echoes of Aelina's sharp words ricocheted within her, each syllable a splinter of ice lodged in her chest. The questions she had voiced now loomed over them, each one a specter that gnawed at the edges of their understanding.
The cold wind carried her murmurings, and one by one, the others began to stir, their faces a collage of confusion and doubt. Aelina's words had been a harsh wake-up call, a brutal reminder that the world they knew was not as they had believed.
The sect they had devoted their lives to, the sisterhood they had cherished—had it all been a facsimile of what they had imagined? Were they soldiers, not sisters? Were they expendable?
