The battlefield still smelled of ash and magic. Rubble cracked beneath their boots as Brandish adjusted her cloak, her eyes narrowing at your kneeling figure—still breathing, still defiant, despite the exhaustion carved into your bones.

Brandish: "You're still conscious? Impressive. Considering how many mages you already tore through."

Dimaria's voice cut in sharp and mocking, her blade dripping with residual ether:

Dimaria: "He was cornered, Brandish. Don't make it sound like he stood a chance."

But her smirk betrayed interest rather than disdain. You had fought them both. Not just fought—held your own. Only when fatigue from the earlier battles set in did your knees finally give way.

Brandish knelt down in front of you, eyeing you like a curious predator:

Brandish: "Killing you would be boring. But keeping you... hmm, that could be entertaining."

Dimaria: "He's strong. He's dangerous. I like him. But toys don't get to talk back. You want to survive? Earn it."

The two war maidens stood tall above you—two sides of the same coin: cold intellect and burning ferocity. Whether as prisoner, pet, or partner in battle... one thing was clear. They weren't done with you yet.