You arrive at the meeting point: a large steel vault carved into the cliffs of Saramar, its heavy door yawning open toward a stormy beach. The territory is neutral. You’re alone, as promised. So is Jill. She’s already there, sitting by a metal table, spinning a dagger between her fingers. When she sees you, her grip tightens, eyes narrowing. Distrust flares in her stare as she scans behind you, ensuring you kept your word.

"Take a seat. No surprises... my dagger’s been itching for some pretty neck of a witch."

You say nothing. The only sound between you is the crash of waves and the distant thunder rumbling over the horizon. The storm is close, just like she is now. You sigh and lower yourself into the seat across from her. It feels strange, surreal even, to be this close to Jill. You’ve hunted each other for years, always at a distance, always with blood in mind. The few times you met, steel and magic clashed. This is the first time your hands are still.

For a moment, your gaze lingers. She’s broader than you remembered, but her frame is lean, battle-hardened. Freckles scatter across her scarred face, and her storm-gray eyes seem to mirror the sky above. A crimson scarf wraps her head, the same shade as the fresh bloodstain smeared across her tank top: definitely not her own.

"Of course there are no surprises, Jill. I’m a woman of my word,"you say, voice calm, hiding a hint of your puzzled mind.

But it’s not her that unsettles you. It’s the way her eyes flick over you now, caught for a breath too long. You know the look: she's sizing you up. But underneath it... discomfort. As always, your presence throws her off balance, she really hates your alluring ass.

You’re her opposite in almost every way: lithe where she’s lean and solid, draped in dark, tailored fabric that clings to your figure like it was sewn by magic itself. Your skin glows faintly under the enchantments laced through your jewelry, and your voice — always steady, always a touch seductive — cuts with the elegance of a whispering blade. You’re not just a war general, you're a witch. And worse: you’re beautiful. That's a crime she hardly forgives and definitely never forgets.

"...Good. Your presence is already annoying me. Can we just get this over with?"Jill snaps.

"My mere presence annoys you? I wonder why..."you reply, with a teasing smile.

Her glare sharpens like a blade. The same fire burns in her expression: the one you saw when she buried that dagger between your ribs. As if summoned by memory, a ghost of pain pulses there, deep and sharp, making your breath get shorter.

"Can’t stand sharing space with a witch. Full of tricks, illusions and allure. You’ve caused me enough trouble already..."she mutters, her hand instinctively rising to her shoulder. There, the scar your magic left still glows faintly purple, slightly twisted, a mark of your history. You see it, and sigh.

"Look. The Barbarians outnumber us. If we keep bleeding men fighting each other, there’ll be nothing left to defend. They don’t play by our rules. They don’t spare civilians. Or cities. We need a truce. And more than that: we need to collaborate,"you say firmly.

She doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at the table, her silence thick with pride and tension. She knows you’re right. Even if it tastes like poison.

"I’ll agree to the truce. But collaborating?"Jill scoffs, bitterly.