A/N: Just as a heads up, it'll take about 5-6 chapters before we finally get into the White Clouds phase of the game. I wanted to spend some time with Satiana first before we jump right to the main course. As always, reviews and criticisms are always welcomed! Thanks for reading.

Edited: 03/30/22

[Black Fog]

Chapter 1: A Living Nightmare

Fire. Lava, scourging in her veins. It must have been real, burning her side, ignited, branding to the bone.

She screamed awake, voice shredding, raking her throat with her nails, gasping for air. Her eyes remained shut, consciousness drifting between life and death.

There was the sound of crying. Or was that a moan? It was a female's voice. Her throat burned. More crying, drumming her ears. Hurt. Pain. Everything was dark. Numbing. Spreading. Her hands froze, then began to sweat. She didn't know whether she was hot or cold.

Detached voices stirred nearby, strange hands holding her still to the bed or whatever it was she was lying on.

A buzzing sound in her ears. A sudden surge of warmth. Blinding white light. Magic. Some sort of sterile sting. Breathing became easier. Air. She needed air.

Save me…somebody…save me please…

The village doctor was no expert. He wasn't even properly educated, being a mere commoner. But he knew how to handle most external wounds and of course, the common cold. They had plenty of herbs growing around in the mountains surrounding the town. Of course, he didn't even have a proper license. He just happened to be the smartest apothecary in town and ended up being worshipped as a healer by the other folks on the streets.

The first floor of his humble abode was his so-called clinic. He took care of his patients, most being sick children or exhausted merchants who complained about back-pains. Then, there were the more peculiar ones. Bandits, thieves, mercenaries. The rowdy bunch, he liked to call them.

Fodlan was never a safe place. As a result, he often ended up with such nasty crew visiting his clinic in the middle of the night after a raid or skirmish. He would bring them in, wrap them up in bandages, and kick them right out.

That was how he spent most of his life, earning a living by turning a blind eye to the dark side of things. He only did what he had to. Cure, get money to feed his family, and then forget everything.

But even in his long career of running random errands, he had never seen such a rare case before.

Some well-known mercenary with a reputation for being barred from taverns barged into his house the night before, carrying a bloody body on his shoulder. For a split second, the doctor thought the poor lad had mistaken his clinic for a graveyard. But then the body twitched.

And then there was a bag of gold. No, scratch that. A shit ton of gold.

Whoever this half-dead corpse was, the doctor prayed to the Goddess that helping her would not end up biting him in the ass later on because holy Seiros, there was way too much gold involved for him to refuse treatment.

So, albeit reluctantly, he ended up letting the girl stay the night in his house. He bandaged her wounds and gave her plenty of water to drink. The mercenary and his buddy ended up casting white magic to heal her external wounds, much to the doctor's surprise, but he pretended he didn't see anything.

He just wanted to get paid. Forget diving into his patient's pasts. He just needed to survive through the night.

But there was something he couldn't bring himself to tell the odd pair of mercenaries who took great care of her.

The doctor quickly recognized his patient's demons would be the worst saboteurs to her recovery. Plagued by nightmares, unseen forces chased her half-awake every hour, even if she should have already been sedated. She flitted in and out of consciousness, whimpering in pain, flailing her limbs against imaginary foes. As a doctor, it pained him to see someone so distraught but there was no cure for trauma. Only time would heal.

The mercenaries carried the girl out of his house when dawn broke. He watched silently as they disappeared down the early, morning street.

He may be a sham of a doctor, but he was still a human with a beating heart. He didn't want to have anything to do with her, but for now, he would go back inside his house and mumble a prayer for her.

Regardless of her origin, no child her age should have to suffer through such trauma and pain.

Her vision was red.

She didn't know how long it was but she continued to run through the cloying dread. There was a crimson trail after each step she took but she paid it no heed. She couldn't see anything, not with her awry vision and the overwhelming darkness surrounding her. She had no idea where she was but something pushed her to sprint faster.

The scene warped, the darkness blending in with her own shadow. Flames burst from all sides, the fiery waves threatening to devour her whole. She halted in the middle of the plains, head darting around.

There was nothing but half-charred corpses lying around. Shattered blades and broken shields littered the scorching clearing. The sound of wind blasting made her shut her eyes and ears to it all.

More screams of pain. Cries. Howling. Ugly sobbing.

She felt a hand on the ankles of her leg and her eyes snapped open. Blonde hair brushed against her feet and she took a step back in horror, sweat pouring down her face. The eyeballs popped out of the body's socket, hanging awkwardly in the air. White, bony jaws clattered, the bloody lips curling up into a grin pure shark.

She screamed, batting the corpse away from her legs with her blood-stained hands.

At her touch, the body crumbled like sand, returning to a pile of ashes.

Another scene flashed around her and the flaming valley disappeared into the far distance. This time, she found gravity taking hold of her, pushing her to the ground. Her body was strapped onto a metal pedestal, preventing her from struggling.

Hundreds of invisible hands, sticky and inescapable, twisted all over her body, scratching her skin, dragging her down into the wailing darkness underneath her. She sobbed, screamed, writhed against the chains shackling her down but there was no salvation.

She sank further into the darkness. The shadows crept under her skin, taking control of her body. She thrashed harder, streaks of tears staining her face as she finally broke down into despair.

Please stop. Somebody, make it all stop. Help me. Please…!

"Help!"

Dark blue eyes snapped open, her keening voice so loud it broke her out of her nightmares. She gasped for air, body shuddering uncontrollably under the remnants of despair. Her hands clutched the front of her shirt, hanging on for dear life. Her head was still ringing from the sudden noise, post-sleep vision darting in all directions.

She didn't recognize the room. Wherever she was, it wasn't the prison cell and most certainly, not the flaming fields of—

A sick noise escaped from her throat and she quickly slammed her hands over her mouth. She choked, shut her eyes, bent up from the bed, and felt the thick rush of fluid rise up her throat. Refusing to submit to nausea, she breathed heavily, willing her own body functions to relax. Twice the vile liquid attempted to spill out her chapped lips, but she swallowed it back down, gagging as the sharp stench filled her nostrils from within.

Fuck…where am I?

It took a while for her senses to calm down, full awareness to return, registering her new world piece by piece. She was lying on a bed — a proper one with fluffy, white pillows and a woven blanket smooth as silk that covered her lower half as she sat straight on top of the mattress. The entire room was built out of wood, not the half-rotten kind the old weapons she used were made out of. It was a normal room, accompanied by a small bed, table, and chair.

Then, there were the windows. Transparent, white panes. Slanted golden rays of sunlight, warm and fuzzy, shone on her bandage-covered skin. She absentmindedly reached her hand towards the light, previously dull blue irises sparkling as she watched her hand glow palpably yellow in the air.

It fascinated her, the notion of living under the sun. She yanked her hands back and held them tightly to her chest, dumbfounded at the lingering warmth on them. Aside from the time she spent underground, she was only allowed to roam at night, due to the nature of her missions. The sun was always there above her head, but she had only been allowed to live under its colder counterpart.

To Satiana, this small moment of relief was nothing short of a miracle and she didn't want it to stop. But time doesn't understand things like prayers and wishes. It continued to move on, regardless of everything that happened in the world of the living.

*Click*

She snapped her head to the door, eyes bulging wide as a man strode confidently into the room.

His honey-brown eyes were steely and impassive as they swept over her. "Oh? Are you finally awake, kid?"

Satiana may still be reeling from mental fatigue and a throbbing headache, but she recognized the man's voice immediately. This man was one of the cloaked figures she had met before she passed out in the middle of the forest.

It was a habit of hers to size up all her opponents before battle and she zoned in on his features.

The man towered high above her height with a large, muscular build. He wore heavy leather and fur with a lance strapped over his shoulder and a sword at his belt. He had rough blonde hair with its ends braided in a short ponytail. Two white streaks ran across his cheeks, probably scars from the battles he'd survived through. A quick glance at him was enough for Satiana to tell that he was strong — perhaps a veteran of some sort.

Her instincts flared and she backed herself further into the headrest of the bed, hunching her back. "Who are you?" She glared at him, feeling her hand aimlessly wandering on the mattress as if searching for an imaginary weapon.

"Your swords are next to you on the bedside," the man said, completely reading her mind.

Satiana blinked and turned her head to the side. Indeed, a pair of swords lay on the table next to her bed. One was hers and the other from the corpse she pillaged the weapon from.

"Why did you save me?" There was no point in beating around the bush. No one ever saved others without expecting something in return. Satiana glared at him, her eyes burning feverishly like her head. "What do you want from me?"

The man laughed. "That's the second time you asked that question, miss."

"Stop messing with me," she snarled, reaching her hands towards the sword that was hers. Then, gripping it tightly, she pointed the sharp end at him. "Let me ask again. What do you want from me?"

She knew this was a battle she had lost from the start. Although she feigned invulnerability, even lifting the sword with her arm sent sharp waves of pain through her aching body. Forget fighting, she probably couldn't even stand up on her own feet at this rate.

But she had to do something against the looming threat in front of her and all she could do was muster up a blank threat.

The man sighed loudly. He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly as if he was at a loss. "Look, little miss," he said, dropping his hand down towards his side. "I saved you because you were asking me to. Don't you remember? You said it yourself. You didn't want to die."

Satiana froze, a fragment of her memories returning. She vaguely remembered lying on the mossy, wet ground, sobbing while she begged to live. A part of her felt like it was surreal. She, of all people, wanted to live?

"That…may be true. But you didn't have to save me. You could've just let me die there. Don't you know what I am?" She pointed the blade at her neck to make her point. "Surely, you knew what you were getting into. I was literally only a few miles away from the battlefield."

The man shrugged. "I don't care about things like politics. I just save the people in front of me. That's what I do. It's my job."

A job to save people?

Satiana scoffed. "Never knew there was such an admirable job. So what do you do?"

"I'm a mercenary," he confessed. "Perhaps you've heard of me before. They call me Jeralt Eisner."

"Sorry, but we don't really get news about the rest of Fodlan back in Caldea," Satiana replied.

Jeralt's eyes widened slightly. "You're from Caldea? That small country beyond the peninsula up north of Fodlan?"

"To be more precise, I'm from a town near the shorelines of Caldea," Satiana found herself explaining, only to cut herself short when she realized her mistake. "But that's not the point. You still haven't answered my question. What do you want from me?" Satiana repeated the question.

Jeralt rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation. "And I'm telling you, I have no hidden agendas. I just saved you because you were hurt. It's up to you what you do from now on."

Satiana frowned at his calm response. Spending years with people who loved underhanded tricks and lies, she unconsciously learned to read the true intentions hidden beneath one's outer appearance. But no matter how long she stared at him, there was nothing about Jeralt that screamed insincerity. On the contrary, everything about his relaxed attitude around her suggested he was truly unperturbed by her existence.

Is he…for real?

"Even if you tell me that, there's nothing I can do," Satiana shrugged. "I don't have a place to return to, nor do I have anything to fight for any longer."

"Then just find a new place to live." The blunt and lax tone of Jeralt's voice only irked her nerves.

Her eyelids twitched in annoyance. "You make that sound so easy."

"But it is that simple," Jeralt responded. He walked over towards the opposite corner of the room and dragged a wooden chair closer to the bed. Then, landing with a plop, he leaned against the back seat and comfortably crossed his arms. "That's what people do when they lose their homes. They find a new one. Maybe build one."

Satiana listened quietly as Jeralt rambled on.

"If not, then they go on a journey. Find something else to live for. As long as you're alive, that's what you do," he continued. "That's how we survivors live on."

Satiana raised an eyebrow at his peculiar word choice. "Survivor? What are you…."

"Aren't you one yourself? You lived through hell."

"I mean, yes, but what does that have to do with anything—"

"It has to do with everything. You survived. Great. You were luckier than others. Now, you move on."

Something inside of her snapped at his words, and before she realized it, she sprang off the bed, launching herself towards him. She grabbed his collar and jerked it forward towards her face. Jeralt coughed as he was hauled forward. She glared at him, hissing in his face. "You have no idea what you're talking about, mister. Luck? Are you saying I survived that hell because some god up there, Saint Seiros or whatever her fucking name was, said I was to live, and so I did? That in the grand scheme of things, I was still nothing but a pawn even to the heavens above?!"

Jeralt coughed louder as he tried to yank her hands off, but she didn't relent her iron grip on him. "Well, you're wrong. I survived because I fought. I killed, sir Jeralt. Many by my own hands. Children, adults, it didn't matter. I killed them all. And I can do it again. No matter how many times it takes," she rumbled darkly, moving the sword towards his throat — a silent threat.

"A-And what are you going to do after killing me?" Jeralt sputtered out, voice raspy from lack of air.

Satiana paused, the blade barely nicking Jeralt's skin. A small streak of fresh blood trailed down the dull steel, mixing in with the splotches of dark red. The blood trickled down to her hands, staining them with red. Feeling the wet drops on her skin, she flinched, the blade wavering.

She had spent years thinking of an answer to his question, even before he had asked her. Gisela used to talk about her own dreams. How she wanted to travel across Fodlan, explore all the exotic meals the continent had to offer, and perhaps open a small restaurant of her own. She had quite the appetite and gobbled down the stale food they served in the training hall with sparkly eyes. Really, it was a dream very much like her. Innocent, sincere, and peaceful.

But what did Satiana have? She didn't know how Gisela managed to keep her innocence thus far because Satiana threw it away after her first kill many years ago. She had no aspirations beyond living to see another day. Hell, she didn't even know if she wanted to live or if she simply couldn't die. She was just…there. Breathing somehow. No goals, no thoughts of her own, nothing.

She tried to imagine something. A new kind of life. A brighter future. But she always ended up wandering back to oblivion, encaged in her cell, screaming through experiments, slashing through skin.

The road in front of her was always darker than night. It was simply an impossible task to conjure up dreams out of thin air. She had no knowledge of the world above ground. So how was she supposed to know what she would do after obtaining freedom?

"I don't know…." Satiana found herself whispering. An acidic emotion rose in her chest, suffocating the air out of her. "I-I don't know!" Her hands quivered, her grip on Jeralt's collar loosening, and Jeralt took that chance to grab her hands away from his neck.

"That's a good start."

Satiana froze, staring dumbfoundedly at him. "W-What?"

"Do you still not realize? Your thoughts and actions are all contradictory. You're too tired to live, but you don't want to die in the end. Even now, you're thinking of killing me to escape. You want to survive. That's a great start," Jeralt continued. He raised a hand towards his neck, smudging the drops of blood away with the back of his hands. "Now, you just need to figure out what you'll live for."

Satiana stared at him with eyes bulging wide as if he had sprouted a second head. The notion of living freely in this world had never crossed her mind before. She was afraid to die and fought to live on till the next day, but she never paused to think about what came afterward. The concept of having a tomorrow was never guaranteed, and she didn't have the time nor luxury to think about such privilege. She fought to live, only to repeat the same mundane actions every day. It was always do or die.

So what other choices do I really have?

"Why are you trying to help me?" Satiana meekly asked, her hand dropping the sword back onto the bed.

Jeralt groaned, slumping down on the chair as the conversation steered back to the same old questions again. "Kid, have you taken a look at yourself?" He lazily pointed at her face, moving his finger up and down.

Satiana glanced down to look at herself. She wasn't wearing any armor; they got shattered by an enemy's spear a long time ago. Underneath where the armor should've been was a pair of battered clothes, a grayish long-sleeved shirt ripped at the sleeves and a pair of long black pants. Her boots were wrecked with the soles coming loose. Every part of her skin visible was tied up roughly with bandages. Dry spots of blood stained parts of the bandages crimson red. Even if she couldn't see her face, she knew her long and messy black hair was horribly damaged — just like her dark blue eyes that barely had a glimpse of light in them.

"So basically, you're pitying me. I don't need pity," Satiana snarled, her blue gaze narrowed to death.

Jeralt let loose a hefty sigh. "You're still a child."

"I'm almost thirteen."

"My point exactly. No sane adult could leave a child alone in such a wretched state as yours."

"All the adults around me seem to have no trouble ignoring my presence."

Jeralt rolled his eyes. "That's why I said sane adults." He leaned forward in the chair, clasping his hands together under his chin. "Look. I have an offer for you. If you don't want my pity, then grow stronger. Become stronger and fight this time for what you believe in, instead of listening to some old figureheads yapping orders. Shut their mouths up."

At his blunt remarks, her brows arched up in surprise. "So you're telling me to take revenge?"

Jeralt shrugged. "As I said before countless times, it's all up to you what you do from now on. Anything is better than sitting still wallowing in despair. It's a waste of this precious chance you were given. You're still alive. Do something with that remaining life of yours."

Satiana went quiet, her head hanging low as she fiddled with her fingers. For the first time in her life, she was just given an order that allowed her room to breathe. She could decide for herself what she wanted to do from now on. When freedom of choice was suddenly thrust into her open hands like this, a part of her couldn't help but feel like she was still living in a dream.

But this time, it wasn't a nightmare for once.

Jeralt took a last glance at the pondering girl on the bed before he closed the door to her room quietly behind him. He groaned, sensing the beginnings of a migraine. He pinched his forehead, hoping to soothe the headache.

"Jeralt! There you are!"

Great, the loudmouth returns.

He sighed loudly, staring at the newcomer with exhaustion brimming in his honey-golden orbs. "What is it, Renard?"

The brunette standing in front of him was his right-hand man. Renard wandered around Fodlan in his earlier years as a freelance hitman. By pure coincidence, after Jeralt escaped from Garreg Mach with his child, he landed himself in an inn Renard habitually used as his work office. The two often drank together in the old days, exchanging stories of their adventures in Fodlan. Renard's carefree nature caught Jeralt's eyes, and the two ended up working together to chase off monsters that threatened the village the inn was in. After that, for some reason, Renard attached himself to Jeralt's side and never let go.

Years later, and here they were, still on the same side.

"You look like you swam in a pile of dog shit," Renard grimaced.

Jeralt glared at Renard. "Keep your voice down."

Renard held his hands in the air before him in a surrendering motion. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Me and my blabbermouth. So what are you going to do with her—" He froze mid-sentence when he spotted the trail of blood dripping down from Jeralt's neck. Mossy green eyes darkened, narrowing in on the wound. "Jeralt, you busybody bastard." Despite the insult, there was no malice behind his words; his voice was laced with concern. "What did you get yourself into now?"

Jeralt absentmindedly traced the wound with his finger. "Oh, this? It's nothing."

"It's not nothing, you idiot," Renard scowled, placing his hands on his hips. "You always get yourself into trouble when I'm not watching you. She's dangerous, Jeralt."

"She's just a child who doesn't know any better," Jeralt responded.

"Jeralt, you and I both know she's not just a normal child. Didn't you hear what happened in the valley? Regicide, for god sake!" Renard threw his arms in the air dramatically to make his point. "And you just invited someone involved in that incident into your house."

Jeralt sighed again for the umpteenth time. "Renard, it'll be fine. She's okay."

Renard only frowned, dissatisfied with his friend's response. "She might be, but you won't be. Your kindness is going to kill you one day, Jeralt."

"It won't be today," Jeralt said with a nonchalant wave of his hand as he brushed past Renard, who was fuming behind him.

"I'm not taking care of this kid for you!" Renard yelled after Jeralt.

Jeralt only rolled his eyes in exasperation, heading downstairs towards the living space. As much as he enjoyed Renard's company, the man was an annoying worrywart at times. Then again, living as mercenaries meant their lives were always in danger, so the man did have a solid reason to worry about him.

Speaking of dangerous kids, here's another one.

His daughter, Byleth, was sitting in one of the chairs next to the dining table. She stared up at him with those blank and dull cerulean eyes of hers. "Father, how is she doing?"

Byleth seemed to be completely unfazed by the chaos that had occurred the day before. Then again, she was always calm no matter what happened. Jeralt believed that even if a volcano suddenly erupted next to them, his daughter would simply sit there, sipping a cup of tea casually. He couldn't tell whether her sense of danger was that dull or if she just didn't care enough about anything. She was his child, but sometimes, she felt like a stranger to him.

"Physically, she's fine. She just needs to heal up her broken bones. It'll take a few months. Other than that, she's sitting there brooding over her life right now," Jeralt roughly summarized.

Byleth was still as expressionless as ever, but her eyes were twinkling with amusement. "You really do love taking on extra baggage. How many times has it been since we've had a new member? I've lost count already," Byleth stated blankly, but Jeralt assumed she was teasing him in her own monotonic way.

"A child that age should never have eyes that look like that," Jeralt muttered as he plopped himself onto the chair across Byleth. His eyes looked forlorn and wistful, a faint memory of Sitri staring emptily at the plains beyond the monastery walls flickering to life. "At least there's still some spunk left in her. She hasn't lost all hope yet, but it's only a matter of time."

Byleth hummed in agreement, lightly tapping her fingers against the wooden table. "So, you plan on leaving her to Renard?"

Jeralt glanced at his daughter. "Why? You think it's a bad idea?"

Byleth shrugged. "He's not known for being good around children."

Jeralt sighed. "I know that, but there are things only those who've gone through hell can tell each other. You see this?" He pointed towards the wound on his neck. "If she were in a healthy state, my head would've definitely gone flying off my neck."

Byleth blinked. "So the real reason you're sending her to Renard is that you're afraid you can't handle her?"

Jeralt scoffed, reaching over the dining table to lightly knock Byleth on the head. "Don't be silly. I won't kick the bucket that easily. It's just…it takes an assassin to know one. I can teach her how to live, but other than that, she's on her own."

"You could teach her how to use the sword properly. I doubt she's ever had a teacher before," Byleth suggested.

"I could, but Renard has the skill-set that fits her more than I do. Who knows? She might become more attached to him when she realizes he's someone who's seen the same things she has," Jeralt explained.

Byleth doesn't reply, but internally, she disagrees because she knows best what a child deprived of proper love and care truly wants. They don't need a teacher to guide them; they want a parental figure. Byleth had her father, but her father never mentioned anything about her mother. She knew nothing, and Byleth had a sinking feeling Jeralt wanted to keep it that way. There were times Jeralt would look at her blankly as if she were some foreign existence. Byleth knew something was wrong with her, but she tried not to think too deeply about it. Jeralt treated her nicely enough, and he taught her many things, but as father and daughter, there was still an invisible wall between them.

Perhaps spending time with this recruit would do her good. After all, she was the first child to catch Jeralt's eye, and most of all, she had his genuine concern. Of course, it was nothing but a hunch, but Byleth felt as if meeting this child would change her. For the better or worse, she did not know. But her hunches were never wrong.

Satiana felt all her remaining strength disappearing when Jeralt left. She fought hard to keep herself awake, energy spent from the emotional hurricane that just ripped through her. Satiana sighed and turned to look out the window.

Tiny specks of dust seemed to dance in the shaft of afternoon sunlight that slanted through the open window. The soft sound of birds chirping echoed throughout the room. Children were laughing outside, and townspeople were chatting out in the open. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was evident from the buzz of excitement that it was a peaceful day outside. She had no idea how far this village was from the battlefield, but it seemed that no one was talking about the war that had just occurred the day before.

It was a world vastly different from what she was used to, and she didn't know how to adjust herself to it. Shuffling on the bed, she moved her knees closer to her chest and hung her head low, laying her forehead on her knee, hiding away from all the light.

Satiana shut her eyes tightly and breathed in. She was exhausted both physically and mentally. After the tragedy she had been through, Satiana wanted nothing more than to rest. But as she thought of this, the tranquil voices entering her ears made her face crease in disgust.

It was strange, really. This untroubled background should've been all she ever yearned for, and yet when she was handed it on a golden platter for free, she became repulsed by the thought of living such a carefree life. True, after living a life spent in uncertainty and keeping everyone at a distance for her own safety, there was a certain charm surrounding the concept of boring domesticity she couldn't resist.

But can I really live like that? Turning away from all the tragedy I saw and caused with my own bloody hands?

A mental image of Jeralt sitting in front of her, his honey-golden orbs sparkling in the sunlight, flashed in her head. There was something foreign yet special in the way he looked at her. Her lips thinned. It was like a sudden outburst of warmth — a fizzy, bubbly feeling — and she couldn't exactly pinpoint this strange influx of emotions. Only moments later, she finally had a name for this odd feeling.

Hope.

Was this what she had been waiting for all along? A chance for redemption? A purpose to continue living for when she had long resigned herself to a cold, empty death?

Satiana gripped her hands tightly, clawing her nails into her skin. She felt the pain searing into her bones as she scratched herself. Then, staring down at her balled-up fists, Satiana felt an agonizing sting in her heart and a nauseating churn in her stomach. But she willed it to fade and composed herself.

I don't have the right to cry. This pain is proof that I'm alive, unlike many others. My survival was built on a pile of corpses. I can't ever forget that.

Satiana had lived a cursed life. Rage, hatred, and fear that she couldn't contain in that tiny body of hers. All these emotions simmered in the pot that was her soul, and she had done nothing but ignored everything, moving like a brainless puppet on a string.

Those strings were no more. Now, she had a choice for the first time in her life. Turning her head towards the swords lying on her bed, she gently grabbed them, hugging them tight to her chest.

She had committed many atrocious acts in her life. The thought of turning a new leaf somewhat baffled her. But she was here now, alive and breathing. Perhaps one day, she'll receive Sothis's judgment and die a miserable death somewhere down the road. Then, if she were to die anyway, she might as well make the most out of it.

She still had no idea what to live for. She couldn't really fathom the idea of living a free life, but she had the opportunity now. Time to search. To learn. To live for real.

This was the fateful crossroad of her life. Whatever she chose to do from now on, it would surely change her life forever. For good or bad, she had no idea. But whatever awaited her, for some odd reason, Satiana felt confident about herself because if there was one thing she was sure about, it was her ability to live through hell.