Iris Brenthall stood barefoot atop the ruins of a fallen airship, her crimson hair disheveled and glinting faintly in the light of burning mana shells. Her fists were wrapped in black combat cloth soaked through with blood—none of it hers. Around her drifted the faint shimmer of red butterflies, their wings iridescent and trembling with venomous mana. They fluttered between corpses and drifting embers, feeding on the energy left behind by dying mages.
Below her, dozens of Central-Southern Alliance knights advanced through the fog, shields raised, spells gleaming faintly in formation. Their commander shouted orders, his voice cutting through the roar of battle.
> "She's alone! Bring her down before she calls the Northern forces!"
Alone.
Iris smiled faintly. Her lips bled, but her smile was sharp.
She leapt.
