The air was cold and biting, and the ground beneath her feet cracked with every step she took. But that wasn't what unsettled her. It was the blood.
Her hands were covered in it, staining the white snow red.
What was going on? This was clearly a bad dream; however, for some reason, this dream felt different from the usual.
She looked down, trembling, trying to understand what had happened, but her body moved on its own, ignoring her confusion.
In front of her stood a lone figure, a shadowy silhouette against the bleak horizon. His appearance was obscured by the storm raging around them, but his presence was undeniable.
He was strong, calm, and unyielding—a stark contrast to the chaos swirling within her.
Without warning, Irene's body lunged forward, attacking the figure with relentless ferocity. Her hands, now wielding blades of ice, struck again and again, each blow powerful enough to shatter space and destroy mountains.
