The wind howled across the battlefield, carrying the stench of blood and frost. Ice crept over fallen bodies, preserving them in a cold, merciless embrace. Another rebellion crushed. Another futile struggle ended. Esdeath stood among the ruins, her fur-lined coat billowing as she surveyed the aftermath with practiced indifference.

Her soldiers waited in disciplined silence, the battle already won, yet a scout approached, his hesitation betraying the unexpected.

"General Esdeath," he reported, kneeling. "One remains."

Her gaze flicked toward him, interest momentarily stirred. "One?"

The soldier nodded. "A lone warrior. He refuses to fall. We've surrounded him, but..." He hesitated. "He's still fighting."

Still fighting?

Her lips curled slightly, amusement glinting in her icy gaze. It was rare for someone to persist beyond reason. Rarer still for them to do so against her forces. The weak always clung to life until the bitter end, but true warriors—those with the strength to command her attention—faced death with dignity, not desperation.

She stepped forward, boots crunching against ice and bone.

The battlefield stretched before her, but now her focus was drawn to the one who stood at its heart.

There, encircled by her soldiers, was a lone figure.

His body was a canvas of wounds, crimson streaks painting his torn armor, yet he did not fall. His breath was ragged, his stance unsteady, but there was no fear in his eyes. No surrender.

He moved with precision, each strike carrying weight despite his exhaustion. A lesser man would have collapsed long ago, but he fought as though sheer will alone could defy death itself.

Fascinating.

Esdeath tilted her head, watching intently. There was strength here—real strength, not the fleeting bravado of those who mistook recklessness for power. But it was more than that. There was something in the way he stood, the way he endured, that sent a slow thrill curling through her chest.

She had fought countless men, crushed countless spirits. Even the proudest warriors broke under her might, their resolve shattering like ice beneath her heel. But this one...

He was different.

A memory stirred—her father's voice, deep and unwavering. "The strong survive. The weak perish. That is the way of the world."

She had built her life upon that foundation, carving her own path with blood and frost. She had never doubted it, never wavered. And yet, here was a man who stood against the inevitable, as if daring the world to prove him wrong.

Her smile widened.

"Hold your positions," she ordered, voice smooth but firm. The soldiers instantly obeyed, withdrawing just enough to create space, though their weapons remained ready.

Esdeath took a step forward.

The air around her grew colder, a thin mist forming as ice crackled beneath her feet. She could end this in an instant—one command, one movement, and his body would be nothing but another frozen monument to her supremacy.

But where was the fun in that?

No, this one was too interesting to discard so easily.

She wanted to see more.

Would he cower before her power? Would he meet his end with that same fire in his eyes? Or... would he continue to defy fate, refusing to bend even in the face of absolute strength?

A rare flicker of anticipation stirred within her.

She had already decided. "You fought well" This man would not die today.

He was far too valuable to be wasted on something as trivial as death.