There was a blade against her neck, its cold edge pressing against her creamy white skin. Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears, the sound of impending death growing louder with each shallow breath. She tilted her head just enough to glimpse the face of her assailant, her blood staining the blade as it grazed her skin. The sharp sting was nothing compared to the storm brewing inside her. Instead of crying out in pain, she closed her eyes, the weight of defeat heavier than the cold steel at her throat. Her head gently pressed against the crumbling stone wall of the fortress.

The black-haired woman loomed over her, her eyes devoid of mercy, yet Irene saw something in them. Her heart ached for her, for what this young warrior had become. The world had shaped her into a weapon, as it had once shaped Irene, but now they stood on opposite sides of fate. Irene let her eyes surrender to the darkness, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she prepared for the inevitable. She would die with dignity. Her body had already surrendered, and all that was left was to offer her soul to the chaos that would follow.

But then, the young warrior spoke, her voice sharp as the blade that hovered so close.

"Why did you hesitate?" she asked, her tone slicing through the silence like a blade through flesh.

Irene stiffened, her breath catching in her chest. She hadn't expected her to speak, let alone question her because for a fact that this woman guised herself as a mute over the years. Still, why had she hesitated? The question echoed in her mind, reverberating against the walls of her shattered resolve. She was the mightiest warrior in the kingdom, feared by all, yet she had faltered in that single, fateful moment. The younger woman had caught her off guard, and in that moment of vulnerability, Irene's blade had failed to strike true when she had a chance. She had hesitated, and now here she was, at the mercy of the very one she had once sworn to destroy.

"Are you hesitating too?" Irene asked hoarsely, her voice laced with bitter irony. She wasn't expecting an answer, but she couldn't stop herself from taunting her adversary, her pride still clinging to her like a dying ember.

"Silence!" The younger woman's voice cracked like thunder as the blade drove deeper into Irene's shoulder. Pain flared through her, but it was not the pain that rattled her; it was the way her blood spilled, hot and slick, pooling around her as she tried to steady herself.

"Good. You're speaking now. I thought you were completely mute." Irene mocked, even as she gagged on her own blood. The words felt bitter in her mouth, but she forced them out, clinging to her final semblance of strength. She could not let her façade break, not now. She would die as a warrior, not as a broken woman.

"Irene Belserion, do you not fear death?" The young warrior grabbed Irene's cloak, pulling her face up to meet her gaze. Their eyes locked. Irene finally stared into her brown orbs as if staring at her own self in the eyes of her enemy.

"You can't…" Irene's voice faltered. "You can't kill someone who's already dead." Her words hung in the air. She had already died long ago, in ways that no blade could ever sever.

The black-haired woman's expression hardened, a flicker of something like pity, perhaps? "So be it. Then I will grant you the honor of dying twice."

The words struck Irene like a final blow. She closed her eyes as the blade descended into her chest, she felt the cold steel sink into her flesh, her body convulsing with the sharpness of pain. She gasped, blood spilling from her lips as the world around her blurred. She staggered forward, her knees giving way, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the warmth of the younger woman's arms around her. It was the kind of warmth that haunted her. In the arms of her enemy, she felt eerily at peace. She was dying, but the peace she felt was not of the world she knew—it was something distant, something that had been lost.

Then, as her vision began to fade, the memories came crashing back—memories of a time when there was no war, no bloodshed, when she had held those tiny hands hers. The warmth had been so familiar then, so tender. It had been a fleeting moment, but it had filled her heart with a light that now seemed so far away. To her, it felt so ironic to be reminded of that time when she was killed by her very enemy. Or was it that she was dying, death was compensating her for some sweet memories to bring into afterlife? Who knows. She chuckled at her predicament; she is indeed dying. She had never been so irrational as this.

"Why did you hesitate?"

Those words echoed again. She heaved as she remembered her reason. It was because of her eyes. Those eyes keep me reminding of that child. She thought as her thoughts start slipping from her mind until she breathed her last.

Or so she thought.

In the blink of an eye, the world shifted. Irene snapped back to reality. She blinked, disoriented, as she stared at the child before her—an innocent-looking, ragged little girl with haunted eyes. The very child who had killed her.

"Lady Irene," a man's voice called out, pulling her from the haze of her thoughts. "What should we do with this child?"

Irene froze, her heart pounding in her chest. The child. She was certain she had already died. The pain had been so real, the sensation of death so vivid. But here she was, alive again, facing the very threat that had once ended her life. The roles had shifted, and now it was she who held the power. The child, trembling before her, looked helpless—vulnerable.

"She's not saying anything," the comrade continued.

Irene's mind raced, confusion clouding her thoughts. Why was she here? Why was this child before her? Had she truly turned back time, or was this some cruel trick of fate?

"We were questioning the other slaves but she seems to be mute."

Her fingers twitched, and before she knew it, she had grabbed the sword from her comrade, pointing it at the child's neck. The coldness of the blade was all too familiar, but this time, it was not the enemy standing before her.

Nienhart, panicked. "Lady Irene, please! Don't—"

But it was too late. The blade swung downwards, luckily, not towards the child but towards the traffickers who had abducted the children. The blade cleaved through them with savage precision. Everyone was stunned, and so was the child. As they were stupefied by the sight, Irene's voice rang out as she tried to manage the situation.

"Skin them until they speak. Spare no one."

She turned on her heel, walking away from the scene. Had she truly turned back time? Or had the universe punished her in some twisted loop, forcing her to face the same choices, over and over again?

"L-Lady Irene, what about this child?" Nienhart asked.

"Ask Juliet to change her clothes, she is so filthy."

A/N: I apologize for not posting any updates for my other stories. I am posting this in advance just to inform everyone that I am still alive and that I am still working with our taxing schedules. I will finish all my other stories. I just felt the need to post this fleeting thought of mine.