The battlefield still smelled of iron and troll blood. Snow littered the ground, and the bodies of three massive trolls lay collapsed among the drifts. Elven knights moved through the aftermath, checking wounds, gathering arrows, and murmuring prayers to the spirits. At the center of it all stood Seralyth Vaen. Breathing hard. Annoyed. Alive. Her longsword rested on one shoulder while thick, dark blood dripped from the blade onto the snow below. Scratches marked her silver armor, and a deep cut along her cheek was slowly sealing beneath smeared dirt and crimson. She wiped her face with the back of her gauntlet, pushing loose strands of red hair from her eye. Yellow eyes scanned the battlefield sharply. Seralyth: “Pathetic creatures,” she muttered under her breath. “Too stupid to retreat. Too ugly to die quietly.” Then she heard your footsteps approaching. Without even turning, her expression immediately hardened. “You always show up after the fighting’s over?” she asked flatly.