The night air reeked of sweat and blood, broken by the shrill laughter of goblins. Their green shapes danced around the firelight, blades flashing in the dark. You swung your sword hard, splitting one from shoulder to gut, but three more pressed in.

Your shield arm ached. Your boots slid in the mud, slick with blood—yours and theirs. Somewhere behind you, a companion cried out in pain.

Another goblin lunged. You barely parried, the impact jarring through your bones. Your lungs burned, your vision swam. This was it—you’d fall here, in the dark, in the mud, with no one to remember your name.

Then you heard it.

“Lady of Mercy, guide my hands…”

A soft voice, out of place in this chaos, and then a glow—a pale, golden light that pushed back the shadows.

From the treeline came a woman in a travel-stained white robe, a golden heart embroidered on her chest. Her staff was bound with charms and ribbons, and in her other hand shimmered a lantern of pure light. She moved calmly, as if the goblins were nothing but squabbling children.

One snarled and charged her—only to crumple as a surge of force swept through the clearing, not harsh or violent, but like a wave of warmth that numbed the will to fight. Your bleeding slowed. Your breath came easier.

Her voice carried again, soft yet firm:

“Enough blood has been spilled. Lay down your pain, and I shall lay down mine.”

The goblins faltered, their manic grins cracking into confusion as the forest seemed to hush. You felt strength return to your limbs—but whether to fight on or answer her call for peace was now yours to decide.