The wolves blinked.
Then one of them choked.
A fan had pierced its throat before it even realized she was behind it.
She didn't stop moving.
Each leap was like a gust.
Each strike—targeted to joints, eyes, and weak points.
Her movements were almost dance-like—a blend of martial grace and Soul-infused speed.
One after another, wolves began to fall.
Five.
Ten.
Thirteen.
The rest turned to flee, but Isolde didn't give them the chance.
She pointed her fan to the sky.
"Rain of Roses."
It started with a wind howl.
Then, like falling stars—dozens of piercing, wind-etched rose thorns rained from above, chasing the retreating wolves down and shredding their backs open as they ran, their howls drowned in the wind.
Silence returned to the ridge.
Kira, panting, lowered her hand. "Remind me to never piss you off, General…"
Isolde didn't reply. She was already ordering her men to move the wounded, reset the formations, and reinforce the slope.
She didn't fight for glory.
