Two women stood in the center of a scene of devastation.
An open field, once green and peaceful, now transformed into a grim landscape of mutilated bodies, shattered weapons, and blood. The wind blew gently, but the air was heavy with the metallic scent of iron, the distant sound of laments, and the deadly silence that follows destruction.
Their bodies were covered in wounds, yet they remained standing, breaths ragged, shoulders tense. Their hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from exhaustion threatening to overtake them.
"It's over..." Cristine murmured, surveying the scene around them.
Her clothing was torn, bloodstains—both hers and her enemies'—decorated her slender frame. Her blue eyes gleamed with fatigue, despite the violence they had just witnessed. Yannifer, her twin, stood beside her, leaning on a short, bloodied sword, her face drenched in sweat, hair disheveled.
