Vale clambered to her feet, the groan of rusted and melted chainmail an unsettling counterpoint to the deathly silence. Her hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of the sword on her back, but it wasn't there. Panic gnawed at her as she remembered the searing heat that had melted the scabbard, leaving her bare-handed and vulnerable. With a tremor in her grip, she ripped the tattered and burned cloak from her shoulders.

Each tentative step crunched on charred armor and broken weapons. The air, thick with the coppery tang of blood and the acrid bite of burnt steel, clawed at her throat. Then, a flicker of movement in the distance, a glint of silver against the obsidian canvas. Hope, a fragile ember, ignited in her chest. Vale lurched forward, each breath a ragged prayer.

Their forms emerging like phantoms from the battlefield's haze. Their armor, polished silver catching the sunlight, bore intricate etchings of a swirling sword and a bleeding serpent, emblems of the kingdom of Aethelgard, an allied nation to Eldoria. Vale's Nation. The leader, his stature broad and imposing, veiled by a silver armor, he wore a cloak of deep crimson, the color of a bleeding serpent. This wasn't just any crimson; it was the verdant shade reserved for the elite Scouts of Aethelgard.

Their hands, resting near sword hilts, spoke of a readiness honed by countless battles, yet they exuded quiet control, a stark contrast to the frenzy that had consumed the battlefield. There were no dormant humans, each carrying a spark of power.

One figure stepped forward, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the desolate landscape. "Who walks among the fallen?

Looking vale saw his helm, a polished dome mirroring the fractured sky that offered no glimpse of his features. Yet, from the depths of its visor, emanated a gaze that cut through the mist like a blade. It was a cold, calculating stare, devoid of emotion, that seemed to dissect Vale, assessing her not as an ally but as a potential threat. His silence, heavy and suffocating, pressed down upon her like a mountain's weight.

His voice was a low rumble that echoed through the desolate landscape. "Who walks among the fallen?"

Vale swallowed, her throat constricting. "I...I am a soldier of Eldoria," she rasped, her voice hoarse from disuse and despair. "I just woke up."

A deep furrow etched itself between the leader's brows. "You woke up on a field littered with Eldorian army dead? Tell me, girl, are you the only one?"

His suspicion hung heavy in the air, as thick as the mist itself. Vale felt a pang of fear but also a flicker of defiance. "I don't know," she replied, her voice firm. "But if there are others, shouldn't we find them?"

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the scout leader, who spoke, his voice softened by a hint of compassion. "We are scouts of the Silver Alliance," he declared. "If you are who you say you are, then rest assured, you are among allies."

"However, we don't take chances on the battlefield, friend or foe," his voice resonated low and gravelly. It held suspicion, just the measured pragmatism of a warrior honed by countless encounters.

With a swift, efficient movement, the leader unclipped a pair of enchanted shackles from his belt. Each ring thrummed with a faint blue light, pulsing in tune with the pour of mana from his finger. Vale's heart hammered against her ribs, but she understood the necessity. In the fog of war, those desperate did many things to just live.

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"These bindings," the leader explained, his tone neutral, "hold no harm; you will feel weak as they sap your mana. You must have these on until we reach out to camp to confirm your identity and enlistment."

He extended the shackles, the blue light casting an ethereal glow on his outstretched hand. Vale, fueled by the desperate need to prove herself, reached out and slipped her wrists into the rings. The light flared for a moment, then dimmed, settling into a gentle hum against her skin, feeling it sap her already weak muscles.

"Now," the leader continued, his gaze piercing through the visor, "do you bear any wounds? The last thing we need is you dying without explanation of what has transpired here." "N-no. Not that I feel anyway, I can walk." Replied vale.

He gestured towards the distant. "Come, we must reach the camp," he said, his tone still guarded. "We have much to discuss. But know this, girl: the truth is a double-edged blade. Be wary of wielding it if you don't have the strength to bear its weight."

"Who are you, girl?" He rasped, his voice roughened by years spent breathing the dust of battlefields. "I am the corvus leader of the Aethelgard scout division."

"Vale." The deshelved girl replied that her armor hung in blackened tatters, molten slag clinging to its edges like petrified tears. The sight was a testament to the chaos, which conspired here.

No scars marred her alabaster skin, and no singed hair betrayed the searing heat. In the ethereal moonlight, her beauty was almost unsettling. High cheekbones and a sculpted jawline framed eyes that glittered like chips of obsidian, their depths hinting at an intelligence far beyond her years. It was a captivating face, sculpted from grace and resilience, yet beneath her alluring face, a body that held a beautifully shaped figure. Muscle that of a soldier trained on the battlefield, she looked like a high-ranking nobel's daughter.

Her eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes. They softened and flicker with fear and anxiety. It was a gaze that seemed to dissect her surroundings, analyzing every shadow, every movement, and a fear of someone or something.

The leader hesitated, his gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. It wasn't just her survival that surprised him; it was the quiet conviction in her voice. Could she be lying? Was she a clever spy, a lone survivor from a rival kingdom playing a desperate hand? Or was she truly an Eldorian soldier, the sole witness to a massacre that shrouded Eldoria's army in mystery?

"We were sent here," he finally acknowledged, his voice grudging, "to find answers to what happened to the Eldoria Army."

"You say you woke up here," the leader finally murmured, his voice gravelly under the weight of fatigue and mistrust. "On a field littered with the fallen, the sole survivor of..." he hesitated, the unspoken name of Eldoria's army hanging heavy in the air.

Vale swallowed, the phantom taste of ash clinging to her throat. "I don't remember much," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Just…fire, screams, and then…nothing."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed the leader's features, hidden behind the visor's mask. "Convenient," he muttered, his tone barely above a growl.

The accusation was sharp and unexpected. Vale straightened, her defiance rising like a shield against the tide of suspicion."Convenient for whom?" she challenged, her voice regaining strength. "I'm a simple dormant solider."

The leader studied her for a long moment, his gaze boring through the shadows of her cloak. Then, with a sigh that rattled like wind through dead leaves, he spoke. "Dormant? Very compelling kindling. It almost makes you wonder if some miracle magic plucked you from the ashes while the rest of them burned." He let out a small laugh.

Then once more spoke. "We were sent as a scouting party," he rasped, "to find survivors and assess the carnage. Instead, we find you, unscathed, amongst an army of dead."

As they continued their walk, the battlefield unfolding around them like a grisly tapestry, the tension began to thaw. Questions still hung in the air, veiled threats unspoken, and there was a desperate hunger for answers.

Then Vale spoke, "What of the reinforcement to be sent? Maybe this would never happen if they actually arrived!"

With a cold and almost aggressive tone, "dead," replied Corvus.

Vale felt a pang of sorrow for the fallen, an echo of the fear esonating through her body. 'dead. A supposed army of twenty thousand awakened. Dead?...

"I didn't ask for this," she whispered, her voice laced with raw emotion. "I don't know how I survived or whatever damn magic happens. I never wanted to be in this fucking war"

The leader remained silent, his doubt a tangible fog between them. Yet, in the depths of his shadowed gaze, a glimmer of something flickered—a spark of recognition, or a sliver of compassion and understanding struggling against the cold grip of suspicion.

"Tell me your story, Vale," he finally said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Tell me everything you remember, every whisper of the nightmare that consumed this field."