Duke Skykor was deep in thought in his study, his quill gliding gracefully over the parchment, tracing an elegant arc. Suddenly, the heavy wooden door swung open with a loud crash, and hurried footsteps shattered the silence of the room. A servant rushed in, his face beaming with joy, breathless as he shouted, "Your Grace! The lady has given birth!"

The Duke's eyes widened in shock; the focus in his gaze instantly softened into tenderness. Almost dropping the quill from his hand, he didn’t bother to straighten his collar as he hurried towards the birthing chamber. He pushed open the door that seemed to separate him from another world, and the sight before him made him hold his breath. The lady lay quietly on the bed, her face as pale as the first snow of winter, but in that snow bloomed a smile that was as warm as a candle flame in a cold night, warming his heart. The Duke approached her, gently taking her cold hand and softly wiping the sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief.

His eyes quickly scanned the room, locking onto a nearby cradle. It seemed to be woven from moonlight, swaying gently in the shadows of the room. The servant, smiling broadly, stepped forward, carefully lifting the swaddled infant and placing her into the Duke's arms. "Congratulations, Your Grace! It’s a girl!" Before the servant had even finished speaking, the Duke had already been captivated by the tiny life cradled in his arms. He looked down at her.

"Have you thought of a name for her?" The Duchess asked weakly, her voice so faint it seemed as if it could be carried away by the wind at any moment.

The Duke’s gaze was filled with warmth and pride. He took a deep breath and gently lifted the baby above his head, his voice firm yet tender, "Matisse, Matisse Skykor! She is a precious gift bestowed upon us by the heavens!"

Time flew by like a fleeting horse, and in the blink of an eye, five-year-old Matisse was already displaying astonishing magical talent. The Skykor family spared no effort in providing her with the finest educational resources, and the masters of the Nova city-state were equally mesmerized by her gifts, viewing her as a miracle in the making. Her growth was like a young sapling, thriving under the sun and rain. By the age of thirteen, she had defeated her own mentor, becoming the youngest mage in Nova’s history.

Matisse's beauty became more dazzling with each passing year. Her deep blue eyes seemed to contain the wisdom of the stars and the sea, and her pink curly hair flowed like the evening glow over her shoulders, highlighting her porcelain-white skin. Her beauty seemed almost otherworldly, as if it did not belong to the mortal realm. Thus, the Duke ordered her appearance to be kept secret to avoid drawing unwanted attention from the outside world.

However, her beauty and intelligence were only part of Matisse's myriad talents. She not only possessed remarkable prowess in magic but also demonstrated extraordinary strategic insight. Once, she keenly detected a flaw in her father's military deployment, decisively proposing a revised plan that successfully thwarted an enemy invasion. Because of her outstanding performance, the young Matisse was granted the title of Countess, bearing even greater responsibilities.

After becoming a countess, Matisse quickly implemented a series of effective policies. She initiated the construction of hospitals, schools, and essential infrastructure to improve the welfare of her people. She understood well that only when the people could live and work in peace and contentment could the nation achieve lasting stability. She remained attentive to the livelihoods of impoverished families, ensuring that every citizen had enough to eat and wear. Her policies won her widespread admiration from the populace, elevating the Skykor family’s prestige to new heights.

Despite the Duke's strict orders forbidding her from venturing out without an escort, Matisse often snuck out of the castle and mingled among the common folk. She used her magic to heal the sick, repair dilapidated homes, and even stood up to protect helpless citizens in times of disaster. Though she believed these acts were merely trivial, she couldn’t help but feel a faint unease in her heart: could such selfless assistance truly bring the returns she hoped for? Yet, as a countess, she knew that it was her duty, and she must fulfill it, no matter the cost.

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Her first battle came shortly after she was granted her title. The enemy launched a surprise attack on Skykor's border fortress, and the situation was dire. The Duke had no choice but to send her to the front lines. Upon arriving at the battlefield, Matisse calmly assessed the positions of both sides. She quickly realized that a direct confrontation would only result in mutual destruction; they needed to use strategy to lure the enemy into an ambush.

"Deploy the Fifth Regiment as bait to draw the enemy into the forest trap," Matisse's voice was like a blade in winter, sharp and commanding.

A lieutenant hesitated, speaking in a low voice, "Countess, the Fifth Regiment is mostly composed of new recruits; they might not be able to handle…"

"Carry out the order," Matisse interrupted him, her gaze as cold and unyielding as a frozen lake, revealing no emotion.

The battle unfolded exactly as she had anticipated. The Fifth Regiment, like pawns on a chessboard, charged towards the enemy without hesitation, luring them into the pre-set trap. The wind in the forest rose suddenly, and the rustling of leaves seemed to carry countless hints and whispers of death. Matisse stood on the high ground, observing everything with a detached calmness, as if she were the master of this brutal game. With the blaring of horns, the main force surged from the flanks like a tidal wave, encircling the enemy and cutting off their retreat completely. The fierce sounds of battle echoed all around, steel and flesh intertwining in a grim tapestry of bloodshed.

As the battle ended, the sun set like a pool of blood, casting its crimson light over the once vibrant land, now stained red and turned into a desolate wasteland. Matisse stood silently on the high ground, gazing over the ruined battlefield. The breeze attempted to wipe away the blood from the earth, but the stench of death lingered, refusing to dissipate. The lieutenant approached her with a grave expression, his steps heavy, his voice filled with barely contained grief, "The Fifth Regiment suffered nearly seventy percent casualties, Countess."

Matisse nodded slightly, as if confirming something she had already expected. Her voice was cold and distant, like frost on a winter’s night, "They fulfilled their duty. In war, sacrifices are inevitable."

Her eyes remained calm, as if the fallen soldiers were not living beings but mere numbers, cold steps leading to victory. Her heart seemed unruffled, as if any emotion was too much of a luxury on this ruthless battlefield. As she turned away, her steps were steady and unwavering, heading towards the command tent, as though the war machine had never ceased its operation.

"Countess, should we hold a memorial for the fallen soldiers?" The lieutenant’s voice, filled with hesitation and respect, cautiously broke the brief silence.

Matisse's steps halted for a moment; she turned slightly, her gaze still cold, "Not yet. Once we have completely defeated the enemy’s main camp and returned victorious, we shall then hold a memorial."

Her words were resolute and logical, as if the ceremony of mourning was merely a victor’s celebration, not a genuine lament for the fallen. She ordered compensations for the families of the deceased soldiers, as if fulfilling her final obligation to death. Yet, the care seemed so mechanical and detached, like an ordinary transaction.

Her father had once told her that war was business, an exchange and a gamble of resources, and only by maximizing benefits could one adhere to the eternal rule. Matisse understood this truth well, knowing that on this cold chessboard, she was merely acting according to the rules. Yet, as her gaze swept over the cold corpses on the battlefield, there was a faint discomfort in her heart, like a sigh from deep within her soul.

As night gradually fell, the sky darkened like ink spilled across the horizon. Matisse stood alone atop the castle tower, overlooking the battlefield's ruins. In the distance, the smoke of battle still lingered; the remains on the field trembled slightly in the wind, as if whispering endless sorrow and despair. The night breeze brushed against her face, bringing a chill, yet her heart felt even colder. The brutality of war was far deeper than she had ever imagined; death was no longer just a cold number but an inescapable reality.

Her calmness and decisiveness made her an unparalleled military commander, but it also gradually eroded her soul with the flames and blood of war. War had taught her the inevitability of sacrifice, and as a leader, she had to prioritize the bigger picture in this hellish landscape, even if it meant countless lives must be lost. The survival and strength of a nation, after all, needed to be watered with the blood of many. In the silence of this night, she finally understood a harsh truth: when a nation falls, what meaning does the existence of its people hold?