Trafalgar noticed it before she said anything.
Aubrelle stood still near the entrance of the structure, rain trailing from her cloak, her posture calm but distant. The white blindfold still covered her eyes, unmoved by the storm, yet her attention was clearly elsewhere, drawn far beyond the broken ground ahead or the soldiers moving through the downpour.
Pipin.
The pale bird circled high above the battlefield, a silent shape cutting through rain and cloud, feeding its vision back to her.
Trafalgar watched her for a moment, then spoke.
"What are you seeing right now?"
Aubrelle didn't hesitate, and she didn't soften her answer.
"Chaos," she said quietly.
A pause.
"Blood."
Another breath.
"Death."
That was all.
Her voice carried no panic, no drama—just a flat, steady truth. That was the state of the front as a whole, stretched across rain-soaked ground and collapsing lines.
Trafalgar crossed his arms slowly, letting the words settle.
Then she continued.
