Azaros stepped forward until she reached the fallen warrior. Her eyes swept the battlefield with solemn stillness, settling at last on the blood-soaked ground where Kazren lay—a tattered remnant of defiance, a half-dead shell brought low by defeat, sprawled at her feet.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Kazren stirred, tried to lift himself, to utter something beyond the frail whimper of pain—but his body betrayed him. Only his eyes burned still, twin embers refusing to die.
At last, he lifted his head. Slowly, a crooked, blood-smeared smile formed on his lips—broken, bitter, but sharp enough to wound.
"So this is how it ends..." he rasped, his voice like rough stone grating the wind. "A human... fighting like a beast? I never thought I'd live to see such a day."
Azaros said nothing. Her gaze flicked to the wound, then back to his face. Her tone was calm—devoid of pity, stripped of awe.
"You didn't beg for mercy," she said.
A flicker of pride lit his fading gaze.
"Wolvarians do not plead, outsider," he said, voice hoarse. "We bite—even as we're being butchered."
"I warned you," she replied. "You didn't listen."
A dry laugh escaped his throat, quickly dissolving into a ragged cough.
"That you did," he wheezed.
She turned to leave.
"Wait…" he called, voice rougher now, but no less earnest. "Kill me."
She halted.
"Isn't that… what victors do?" he added between ragged breaths.
She turned back to face him, her eyes unflinching.
"You want to die?"
He looked up at her—broken, yet unbent.
"I ask for no mercy, no softness. Only… a clean end. A death with honor—beside my commander."
She studied him in silence.
"You would rather die… than live after his fall?"
His jaw clenched.
"How could I face my kin? Return alone… disgraced, carrying only the weight of failure?"
Even the forest fell quiet, as though holding its breath.
Then, in the hush, Azaros knelt.
She reached for a shard of Drakthar's broken blade—its edge still gleaming with defiance—and drew it slowly across her palm. Warm blood welled up, pooling in her hand like a drop of soul.
Kazren's eyes widened, confused.
"What are you doing?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she stepped forward, pressed her bloodied palm to his wound, and let the crimson seep into him—slowly, steadily—like warmth returning to frozen flesh. His body trembled, recoiled.
"Wait…" she whispered.
And then—something shifted.
The bleeding slowed… then ceased. No bandage, no incantation. Only the blood.
Beneath her hand, flesh began to mend, skin knitting itself whole.
The gash that had gaped like death's mouth… closed.
Kazren gasped, heart shuddering. He stared at the sealed wound.
"Why… why did you save me? Do you pity me?"
She wiped her bloodied hand on the soil, then rose without haste.
"No," she said, unflinching.
"Then… why?" he asked, as if the question itself bore more weight than the answer.
Her eyes didn't offer an answer. Only a truth.
"Because… you didn't disgrace yourself."
Silence lingered. Then he turned his face to the sky, drew in a slow breath, and murmured as if speaking to the forest itself,
"Perhaps… not all humans are hollow."
Azaros turned to go.
"What you did won't change anything," he called softly. "If we meet again… I won't hesitate…"
She didn't look back.
"You're welcome to try," she murmured.
She walked away. Then paused, and turned.
"Tell me… are there any human settlements nearby?"
He blinked twice—caught off guard. Then spoke slowly,
"Head southeast. You'll find the great stone wall. Beyond it… lies their outpost."
She gave a faint nod, and kept walking.
He watched her until she vanished between the trees.
The moment she disappeared into the forest, Azaros collapsed to the ground. The sound of her body hitting the damp undergrowth was like a silent confession—of the toll her flesh had paid. Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, as if chasing the soul that had nearly slipped from her in battle. Her fingers uncurled, and her blood seeped into the moist soil, staining it with the scent of iron that mingled with the perfume of fallen leaves.
She lay motionless, eyes gazing up at a sky barely visible through the dense canopy above. In that suffocating silence, she searched for something like rest.
Then came the voice—soft as a whisper, yet edged with steel.
"You shouldn't have done that."
Azaros didn't reply right away. Her breath still carried the heat of combat. When she finally spoke, her voice was steeped in the ashes of exhaustion.
"It was necessary," she said. And then, as if trying to convince something inside herself—not just Nentu—she added, "There was no other choice."
Nentu did not raise her voice, but her words came tight, clenched, as though choking back a furious cry.
"There was."
She paused—sifting through what patience remained.
"You could have fallen. Pretended defeat. Ended it without exposing yourself."
Azaros exhaled, a bitter breath.
"Not this again."
"This again," came the answer like a locked door—unyielding, final.
Silence fell between them, the kind that settles after the last blade is drawn, after the dust of war begins to descend. Azaros looked to the earth—not for stones, but for solace. When she spoke, her voice held a shadow of guilt she would not name.
"You saw them. They wouldn't have stopped. I didn't choose this fight, Nentu… the fight chose me."
She paused, only briefly, and continued—not in defense, but in declaration, as though she were pledging herself on the scaffold.
"I did what had to be done. If I fall… let it be standing. Never kneeling."
Nentu's voice brushed over her skin like a cold breeze over fevered flesh.
"You're reckless… stubborn to the point of blindness. And since you chose to fight, I'd have preferred you killed them all."
Azaros raised a brow.
"Really? You're serious?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
"No witnesses. No stories. No loose ends."
Then, like reciting a rule etched in stone,
"Clean… not chaotic."
A heavy silence followed—not one that invites reply, but one that settles, like ash left untouched after fire.
Azaros looked down at her palm, stained with blood she could no longer tell was hers or theirs. Her voice came low.
"Perhaps… if I still had my body… I wouldn't have hesitated."
This silence was not pride, nor defiance. It was doubt. And when she finally spoke again, her voice was soft, as though trying to believe a truth she hadn't yet accepted.
"But this body… it's changing me."
Nentu answered calmly.
"Bodies don't change people, Azaros. Not bone, nor muscle, nor skin."
She paused. Then her words came quiet—but pierced like truth,
"What changes us is memory… experience. The interplay of scenes and sensations, of loss and choice. When decisions repeat… algorithms evolve. That is the nature of consciousness."
Azaros frowned, a hint of disdain curling into her tone.
"I don't know anything about algorithms… and I don't think I want to."
She added, with rare honesty, clutching at the one thread that still made her feel whole,
"I just… follow my instinct."
Nentu sighed.
"Instinct isn't always enough, Azaros… Sometimes, you have to listen to someone else."
Azaros let out a weary laugh, soft as candlelight flickering to its end without admitting the flame is dying.
"And what has that gotten me? Beaten. Insulted. Bleeding from every limb. All because I listened."
She lowered her voice, but not its weight.
"If I'd acted as I was made to… I could've ended it without spilling a drop of blood."
She ran a hand through her tangled hair, took a deep breath.
"And speaking of blood… I'm covered in it. What I need now is a hot bath… and perhaps a glass of good wine… something to wash the taste of this journey from my mouth."
She rose and began walking again, each step heavier than the last.
Nentu said nothing. She knew—some conversations end only in dead ends.