Rubble crumbled underfoot as Mariposa rose from the wreckage, blood trailing down her cheek, staining her white collar crimson. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, but her grip on the scythe made of her own blood was unwavering. She stood tall.
Zephariel approached through the haze, calm and composed, his sword—etched with golden intricates—resting on his shoulder. There was a cold confidence in his stride, one that radiated a dangerous stillness. He watched her with eyes of amber fire.
"You're stronger than expected," he said, voice like polished steel. "But strength without discipline is chaos."
Mariposa spat blood to the side and rotated her scythe with a flourish. "And discipline without emotion is death. Let me show you what my chaos can do."
With a sharp breath, Mariposa raised her arm—and her blood obeyed.
