Elisa had never believed a battlefield could be reduced to such chaos. The carefully laid plans, the coordinated maneuvers, everything that had been thought out beforehand had shattered the moment Maggie had charged forward, halberd first, consumed by a rage greater than reason. The crash of her blows and the brutality of her assaults had forced every soldier, every squad leader, to improvise in the shadow of her carnage.
Elisa saw it clearly. She saw how order became disorder, how tactics turned into instinct. And yet, she did not resent Maggie. On the contrary: the violence of that woman, born of a pain Elisa dared only to imagine, opened breaches no strategy could ever calculate. But it came with a price: the lines were stretching thin, and someone had to stitch them back together.
So she moved.
