[Irelia…]
A few hours after a battle she didn't remember starting, Irelia sat in a makeshift tent. She was far enough from the front lines to breathe—but not far enough to forget the smell of blood, smoke, and dust that still permeated the air. Her hands, covered in fresh cuts, trembled slightly around a bowl of warm water. The reddish foam that accumulated on the surface was a silent reminder: she had killed. Again.
But for the first time since she had awakened in that body, she did not feel strange inside it.
The words of a messenger echoed in her recent memory—maps scribbled with urgency, enemy positions, retreat routes. Orders she had given without knowing where such authority came from. The soldiers obeyed. Not out of obligation. But out of respect. Out of faith. Out of love?
She wasn't sure.
