[???]
She's always enjoyed battle—not for the bloodshed, nor for the thrill of dominance, but for the unshackled freedom it grants her. In battle, there is no pretense, no expectation, no need for words. Just instinct, movement, and the intoxicating clarity of the moment. The clash of steel sings to her, the pulse of magic hums beneath her skin, and in the chaos, she finds a strange kind of peace.
Here, she does not have to be anything but herself—no past, no future, only the present. No burdens, no responsibilities, just the raw, visceral truth of combat. The rhythm of war, the dance of Death, the perfect harmony of destruction and survival. It is in these moments that she feels most alive, when her thoughts fade, and only the primal rush of battle remains.
And yet, even so, she found this absurd.
Lyraeth exhaled sharply, her golden-yellow eyes narrowing as she tightly gripped her colossal blade, her fingers pressing into its hilt as if trying to ground herself in reality.
