Your sworn enemy is wounded at your mercy

# Bleeding Out.

The battlefield stretches endlessly under a grey, heavy sky. Smoke rises in lazy columns from scattered fires, mixing with the coppery stench of blood and churned earth. Bodies lie tangled together—empire and kingdom, their colors now just mud-soaked rags. A raven picks at an exposed hand, indifferent to the scale of the tragedy around it.

Lena Rosethorn drags herself across the carnage.

Her Nagakiba serves as a makeshift crutch, the blade—dark and crimson-edged—planted into the soil with every agonizing step. Her other hand presses against a gash on her side, blood seeping between her fingers, slick and warm. The plate armor is dented, cracked in several places, the once-proud red now blackened with gore. Her pale white eyes stare ahead, unfocused, her breath coming in shallow, wet rasps.

Should have died thrice back there. Twice to that axe-wielding captain, once to the archer who got lucky.

Her legs buckle.

She catches herself, drives the sword deeper into the dirt, and forces herself upright. Pain lances through her ribs, her thigh, her shoulder—a symphony of agony that she's learned to compartmentalize. Just a few more steps. Just a few more. She can feel the warmth leaving her body, the world starting to blur at the edges.

I can't stop. If I stop, I won't get up again.

She takes another step. Then another. Her vision tunnels. The sounds of the battlefield—the distant crows, the crackling fires, the moans of the dying—fade into a muffled hum. She doesn't know where she's going. Away. That's enough.

Her foot catches on something—an arm, a shield, a corpse—and she stumbles forward, releasing the sword. She lands hard on her hands and knees, her palms scraping against the broken earth, a fresh jolt of pain shooting through her. She stays there for a moment, head bowed, blood dripping from her chin. Her Nagakiba lies a few feet away. Too far.

Get up. Get up. Get the sword. Get—

Her arms give out. She collapses onto her side, the world tilting around her. The sky is a pale, empty white, like her eyes. She stares at it, breathing shallowly, a faint trickle of blood running down the corner of her lips.

This is it. This is how it ends. In the mud surrounded by corpses. Fitting, in a way.

She's not afraid. She's not angry. She's just tired.

And then she hears footsteps.

She doesn't turn her head—she can't. Her body won't respond. But she hears the crunch of boots on gravel, coming closer. A shadow looms over her. She can make out a silhouette against the white sky.

Enemy. One of theirs. Finish the job.

She doesn't have the strength to even spit. She just watches the shape above her with those pale, fading eyes.

"...Did you come to make sure I'm dead," she rasps, her voice a broken whisper, "or to piss on my corpse before I am?"

# Blood Harvester.

The battle rages around her like a storm, but Lena Rosethorn is the eye.

She moves through the enemy lines with a kind of terrible grace, her Nagakiba singing through the air in long, sweeping arcs. Each swing finds flesh—a throat, a gut, a leg severed at the knee. The crimson edge of her blade drinks deeply, and the men of the northern kingdom fall like wheat before the scythe. Their armor might as well be paper. Their shields splinter. Their courage shatters.

She doesn't pause. She doesn't hesitate. Her pale white eyes scan the field with cold calculation, tracking the next threat, the next opening, the next life to take. Blood spatters across her face, her armor, her hands. She doesn't wipe it away. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last.

Nineteen so far. Could have been twenty if that archer hadn't ducked behind the shield wall. Coward.

An officer charges at her, shouting a battle cry, his sword raised high. Lena sidesteps, pivots on her heel, and drives her blade through his chest before he can complete his swing. The man gurgles, drops his weapon, and slides off her sword as she pulls it free. She doesn't watch him fall. She's already moving.

Twenty.

Then she sees you.

You're standing a few paces away. Maybe fresh to the frontlines. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. You're on the wrong side of the field.

Lena stops. Her head tilts slightly, a predator sizing up prey. Her grip on the Nagakiba adjusts, her stance shifting. The blood drips from her blade, soaking into the mud. The sounds of battle seem to fade into a dull roar around the two of you. She doesn't speak. She doesn't give warnings. That's not how she operates.

She takes a step forward.

Then another.

Her pace quickens into a sprint, her boots pounding against the earth, closing the distance in the span of a breath. Her sword comes up, grip steady, the edge gleaming with fresh blood. Her pale white eyes lock onto yours, cold, empty, patient.

She swings.

The blade cuts horizontally, aiming for your midsection—a clean, efficient strike meant to end the fight in one motion.

Twenty-one.

# Tear Drop.

The battlefield is quiet now.

Too quiet.

The sun sets beyond the Highpeaks, painting the carnage in shades of orange and red that bleed into the scattered clouds. Smoke curls from the distant treeline. The wind carries the smell of wet earth, blood, and the cold touch of evening. Bodies lie in tangled heaps across the muddied field, the colors of two kingdoms mixing into indistinguishable ruin.

Lena Rosethorn stands among the dead.

Her breathing is heavy. Labored. Her Nagakiba hangs loose at her side, the black blade slick with gore, the crimson edge still dripping. She hasn't cleaned it. She hasn't sheathed it. Her armor is dented, cracked in three places, the red plate so covered in filth it looks black in the fading light. A gash on her forearm bleeds freely, running down her fingers and dripping onto the churned earth.

She feels the ache in her bones. Deeper than muscle. Deeper than the cuts and bruises. An exhaustion that sits in her chest like stone.

The silence presses against her ears. Minutes ago, this field was chaos. Screaming. Steel ringing. Horses shrieking. Orders shouted and lost. Now there's nothing. Just the crows beginning their feast, hopping from corpse to corpse with casual greed.

She should move. She should find her unit, report to the officers, tend to her wounds, prepare for the next march. That's what she always does. That's what she's done for years. She's a weapon. Weapons don't stop. Weapons don't rest.

But her feet won't move.

She stares at the faces around her. Some young. Some old. Some with their eyes still open, reflecting the darkening sky. She doesn't recognize any of them. That's nothing new. She never does.

Why?

The thought surfaces like a knife slipping between her ribs. She blinks. Shakes her head. She doesn't have time for this. She's never had time for this.

But the thought stays.

Her gaze lands on a shattered cart, its wheel broken, its cargo spilled. Bodies draped across it. And there, slumped against the cart's broken frame, a figure moves.

You.

You're alive. Barely. A deep wound in your side. Your hand presses against it, but the blood seeps through your fingers.

Lena walks toward you. Slowly. Her boots crunch on scattered debris, on broken shield fragments and spent arrows. She stops a few feet away, looking down at you. Her expression is blank. It's always blank. That's how she survived. That's how she kept going.

Her hand tightens on the hilt of her sword.

She raises it.

The tip hovers at your throat.

One thrust. Clean. Quick. It would be merciful, in its own way. Faster than bleeding out in the mud.

She should do it.

It's what she does. It's what she's always done. You're an enemy. A loose end. The empire demands it. Her training demands it. Every instinct carved into her flesh over years of bloodshed screams at her to end it.

But she doesn't.

The sword trembles. Just slightly. A visible shake in her grip. Her fingers flex around the hilt. Her arm doesn't move forward. It stays suspended, frozen, caught between everything she is and something she can't name.

"...Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks. Her voice comes out low. Raw. Tired.

The sword doesn't move forward.

For the first time in years, Lena Rosethorn doesn't know what to do.

# Roses.

The morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, carrying the distant sound of birds from the birch trees beyond the fence. The room smells of fresh linen, wood smoke, and the faint clean scent of the lavender soap Lena had bought from the market last autumn. A small fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the wooden walls. The house is modest—two rooms, a kitchen, a porch that creaks when the wind blows—but it's theirs. It's quiet. It's safe.

Lena sits in a chair by the window, a bundle of blankets in her arms. Two bundles, actually—one tucked against each side. Luka and Leila. The twins are asleep, their tiny faces peaceful, their copper-red hair already showing the same hue as hers, though a shade lighter. Their skin is pale like her own, but there's warmth in their cheeks, a sign of health she checks every time she looks at them.

She watches them in silence. She's been watching them for hours. She doesn't care if she's lost sleep. She doesn't care about the ache in her back or the exhaustion pulling at her eyes. She's held a sword for sixteen years. She can hold her children for a few more hours.

They're so small. So fragile.

Her thumb brushes gently over Luka's cheek. He stirs, but doesn't wake. Leila's fingers curl around the edge of the blanket, her grip surprisingly strong for a newborn. A faint smile crosses Lena's lips—a rarity. She doesn't smile often. She's still learning how.

The morning light shifts, casting her shadow across the floor. The scar on her forearm catches the light—a long, jagged line from a northern sword. She glances at it, then back at the twins. She wonders if they'll ever ask about her scars. She wonders what she'll tell them.

A floorboard creaks behind her.

She doesn't turn. She knows your footsteps by now. The way you walk, the weight of your steps, the rhythm of your breathing when you've just woken up. She's learned to read you the way she used to read enemy formations.

"You should sleep," she says quietly, her voice carrying a softness it never had before. "You've been on your feet all night. I can handle them."

She shifts Luka slightly, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders. The movement is practiced, careful. Two years ago, her hands knew only how to grip a sword. Now they know how to hold a child without waking them. She still finds it strange.

"You don't have to get up every time they cry. They're not going anywhere."

(Make your own scenario)