[Ovelia's POV]
The battlefield clawed at my senses.
Damp earth and iron. Acrid smoke from burning canvas coiling through the trees like a strangling hand. And beneath it all—the sounds. Not the clean clash of training yards, but the wet, visceral percussion of bodies trying to end each other.
Through the skeletal gaps in the trees, I saw her.
Ann. She wasn't fighting. She was composing. A symphony of violence where every movement was a note struck in perfect, lethal time. Her black fur drank the moonlight as she wove between two hulking werewolves, their bulk meaningless against her precision. Her claws didn't slash—they wrote, leaving crimson signatures in the air, each stroke a verdict rendered.
