Breathing heavily on the battlefield, she stood—eyes hazy, blood in her mouth, chest rising and falling like something barely alive yet too stubborn to collapse. The air stank of iron, smoke, burnt skin.
Her boots sank into the flesh of fallen men, sword dragging behind her, leaving a trail through blood and mud as she moved between twisted corpses, not with purpose, not with rage, but with one desperate hope burning in her mind—that she would find him. A body. A scent. A scrap of cloth. Anything.
The thunder of horses echoed in the distance—enemy reinforcements—and still, she moved. Uncaring. If death was on its way, then let it come. Let it break every bone in her body, poison every last drop of blood—but let it happen near him.
That would be enough.
Her eyes scanned the mess of limbs and armor, not even blinking anymore, just searching—any sign, even a broken strand of his hair, something to hold, something to die with.
'I can't die.... Not yet.... Not without seeing him—'
Her fingers trembled, but her jaw stayed locked. Her body wanted to fall, but something inside her refused. That something had his name etched on it.
"Haa… wh…ere…" Her cracked lips parted, the sound more a ghost than a voice, her breath leaving a mist in the cold.
Her sword's tip screeched against the ground, dragging along the blood-soaked soil, as if it, too, was tired of the weight it carried.
Her eyes burned from the smoke, but she forced them open. The pain in her limbs was sharp, but her mind only knew one thing now—keep moving, keep breathing, until she saw him.
Swish
thwack
The arrow came without warning, punching into her back with such force her body staggered forward. Armor caught it, but the blow shook her lungs.
She spat blood, lips painted red, hand instantly going to her abdomen as another rush of warmth spilled out. She turned—slowly, like something rising from the grave—eyes locking onto the direction the arrow had come from.
Thk
A second one, straight through the shoulder. She jerked, stumbling back, but refused to fall. She had stood alone against three thousand men; what was one more arrow? Her legs shook, vision dimmed, but the hate in her chest kept her alive.
No, not hate—love, twisted into something so desperate it burned like fury. She didn't want to survive. She wanted to see him. That was the only reason she was still standing.
She blinked slowly, eyes landing on three men standing ahead of her, behind them at least a dozen soldiers, and those towering green flags—mocking her, declaring the end.
One of them held a bow. It wasn't just a weapon—it was something cursed, dark. The arrow already strung gleamed unnaturally, tip laced with a blue stone she knew too well.
Arcanic poison. Ranwin Valley. A single graze was enough to kill hundreds of elephants.
"What the hell is this bitch made of?" the archer muttered, eye squinting, voice cold, too calm for a man standing in a field soaked with the blood of his own soldiers.
He looked at her like a mystery, like something wrong, something impossible. The battlefield had gone still.
No groans. No wounded calling out. Just corpses. Too many. All theirs.
He exhaled, then let the string go. No hesitation.
That arrow alone cost more than a kingdom's treasury, but none of them cared anymore.
She wasn't someone they could measure in gold or blood. She had become something else.
Thwack
"Cough… haah… haah… Aven…" His name ripped from her throat as the poisoned arrow sank into her other shoulder. Her body recoiled, lungs catching fire from the inside, and she knew—this was it.
This was where she'd fall.
But still, she clung to that name like it was the last thing she had left.
Her legs gave in. Her body crumbled. But there was no shame in the way she fell—it wasn't weakness. It was weight. Too much of it.
She hit her knees, sword still clenched, the blade digging into the dirt to keep her from collapsing fully.
Blood dripped from her wounds, dark and turning green, veins on her face pulsing with that cursed blue.
Her body was losing. The poison was spreading fast.
The nerves beneath her skin lit up like fire, but she didn't scream. Didn't cry. She just stared ahead, face pale, lips barely parting.
'No... not now... not until, I see him...'
Her crimson hair whipped in the wind, dirt and blood streaking her cheeks. Her jaws were clenched.
Canines poking out. Her body was breaking, but her soul wasn't done.
Not yet.
Then a laugh cut through the silence.
"Oh… haha… so that's why that bastard can't manifest his bloodline when I plucked off his head."
She looked up slowly, and there he stood. One of the three. Armor hiding his face, but golden eyes gleaming like fire behind steel.
The emperor of Rowleia. His presence stung. She recognized that voice. That tone. That arrogance. Her mind blinked—and everything inside her froze.
Her canines retreated. Jaws loosened. Eyes locked. And when the man stepped off the horse, she didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
'Huh?' She just listened again to those words echoing in her skull, twisting through the poison, through the pain.
Because she knew he wasn't talking about anyone else.
He was talking about him.
Her husband.