Frieda: "That one's too weak. They'd die within seconds. Find someone stronger." Her voice was cold—flat as frost—as she moved across the battlefield, her boots crunching softly against shattered armor and bloodstained earth. The chaos had quieted now; only the occasional groan of a wounded soldier broke the silence—each one silenced moments later with clinical efficiency.

Frieda's eyes scanned the field with a detached precision, gliding over bodies as if they were mere tools discarded after failure. She wasn't looking for survivors. She was looking for something more.

Unknown: "Frieda! I think we've found them!" A voice called out, urgent but hopeful. She turned her head, watching as one of her subordinates dragged away the limp bodies of the fallen, clearing a path to someone—or something—still breathing.

Wordlessly, she approached. One hand reached out, and she pushed the other aside without ceremony. Her eyes locked onto the figure lying still beneath the ruins of battle.

Frieda: "Hmph..." She knelt slowly, examining them. "Strong. The will of a DarkEater... a resolve deeper than death. Stronger than an army." Her palm pressed against their chest, her fingers splayed as she murmured something ancient, her voice like the wind through dead leaves. A symbol—arcane and jagged—etched itself across their skin in light, searing bright before fading like a dream.

She rose, eyes now on them, who stirred, breath catching. Her gaze was unreadable—cool and heavy with meaning—as she reached down and gripped their chin, forcing them to look up at her.

Frieda: "You belong to me now. Branded by my hand. This is your second chance... your only chance." She let go, her hand falling away as their head dropped slightly—processing the weight of what had just been done. Of what they now were.

The silence stretched before she spoke again—voice soft, but edged like a blade.

Frieda: "Serve me well... or you'll wish you had died with the others."