9

As Felicity and her guards pressed deeper into the dense woods, their keen eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of the fallen warrior, Freya. The rustle of leaves under their boots echoed through the silence, the weight of their impending confrontation hanging heavily in the air.

Finally, they arrived at the clearing where Freya lay, her body tightly bound by the branches of the ancient tree. She appeared weak, her once fierce countenance now marked with exhaustion and pain. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle to survive.

Felicity approached with an air of superiority, her steps deliberate and confident. She towered over Freya, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and disdain. With a mocking smirk playing upon her lips, she taunted her fallen comrade, reveling in her vulnerability.

“You always were the weakest among us,” Felicity sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. “A pitiful failure, unable to fulfill even the simplest of tasks. It seems