From Freya Van Daalen's Perspective
Freya's mind only returned to normal when the last of the fugitives fell.
The silence that followed that final death was unlike any that came before.
There were no more footsteps, no more screams, no more branches snapping in panic.
The forest, once alive with motion and noise, now seemed subdued — as if the very world were paying its respects to the end of the hunt.
She stood in the middle of the path, her body still in fighting stance, shoulders tense, heart pounding in a strong, steady rhythm.
For a moment, she didn't breathe.
Then, slowly, the world began to align again — air filling her lungs, the sound of her own breathing echoing softly among the trees.
That was when it came.
The sensation.
A primal certainty — an instinct so clear it was almost divine.
She knew.
She knew they were all dead.
That none of those men were breathing anymore within the perimeter of her senses.
The ability of her Essence — the Huntress's Sense — pulsed inside her like an invisible radar, transmitting a quiet, absolute truth:
the forest was clean.
No more prey.
No more hunt.
Only then did she relax.
The tension in her muscles dissolved gradually, and a warm rush swept through her body — a wave of pure release, somewhere between relief and euphoria.
It was an ancient feeling, primal, speaking directly to the soul: the predator's satisfaction after a successful hunt.
For a long moment, she stood there, motionless, savoring the sensation.
Her fingers still firm around her sword's hilt, blood dripping lazily along the blade, her heart slowing its pace, her mind blissfully empty.
The cold night air brushed her skin, and the contrast between the forest's chill and the heat of her body created a heady, intoxicating blend.
It was magnificent.
The energy coursed through her like a current, climbing from the base of her spine to her neck in rhythmic waves.
Every fiber of her being felt alive, awakened, attuned to everything around her.
And — disturbingly — she loved it.
The intensity, the dominance, the pure freedom of acting without fear, without hesitation, without regret.
For a few seconds, Freya allowed herself to smile — a small, tense, but sincere smile.
The kind born not from happiness, but from power.
But then the smile faded.
Because deep down, she knew.
She knew that if she kept giving in to this feeling, sooner or later, she would cross a line she could never return from.
The same instinct that now fed her could one day consume her.
She wasn't a beast.
Not anymore.
Even though the Essence within her pulsed with the Blood of the Lioness, she was still human — or at least, she wanted to remain so.
And even if the Black Tower was only a game, a world of illusion, there were things the human mind couldn't ignore forever.
Hunting monsters was one thing.
Hunting people… was another.
She drew a deep breath, cleaning the blood from her sword with the fabric of her tunic, then sheathed it in a mechanical motion.
The sounds of the forest slowly began to return — the distant croak of frogs, the faint hum of insects, the whisper of leaves rustling in the wind.
Life returned, timidly, as if awaiting her permission to exist again.
Freya looked around one last time.
The shadows of the trees stretched long across the blood-stained soil, and the moon — high and pale — shimmered faintly on the wet ground.
The scene was macabre, yet beautiful in its own brutal equilibrium.
She closed her eyes and exhaled softly.
"Enough for today," she murmured under her breath.
It was time to go back.
She turned, inhaling deeply, and let her instincts guide her.
Even without trying, she could feel Aslan's scent in the air — that distinct blend of metal, ash, and iron.
It was unmistakable.
Strong. Constant.
Like an invisible mark imprinted upon nature itself.
She smiled again — tired this time, but calm.
Tracking him would be easy.
She could follow that trail for miles… maybe even with her eyes closed.
And so she began walking back, her steps firm and silent, her heart finally at peace — or at least as close to peace as someone like Sith, the Lioness, could ever be.
The Gloomshade Forest remained the same — silent, imposing, wrapped in its eternal shroud of bluish mist.
But to Freya, everything felt different now.
The tall, twisted trees that once seemed threatening now felt almost welcoming.
The dim silver light of the moon filtered through the branches, soft and steady, no longer frightening — just familiar.
She moved among the shadows with ease, as if the forest itself had finally accepted her as one of its own.
The smell of blood had already faded, replaced by the damp fragrance of moss and ancient wood.
The wind blew gently, carrying the distant sounds of owls and whispering leaves.
Each step sank lightly into the soft ground, her breathing slow and steady, blending seamlessly with the forest's tranquil rhythm.
She didn't run.
There was no need.
From the subtle pull of her Essence — that instinctive awareness humming at the edge of her perception — she knew Aslan hadn't moved.
He was still in the same place, calm, waiting… as if he knew she would return.
And so, Freya walked without haste, letting time flow at its own pace, the forest moving quietly around her.
With every minute, the trail grew stronger — the metallic scent of his blood, the faint iron tang of his shield, the earthy note of the Titan's Bulwark's energy guiding her like a beacon.
It was unmistakable.
It was him.
After some time, the moonlight broke through the trees, revealing a clearing ahead.
There he was — Aslan.
The man who, minutes earlier, had crushed thirty enemies without breaking a sweat.
But now, his expression was different.
He stood still, shield resting against the ground, axe hanging from his belt, helmet lying beside a fallen log.
His armor was still marked by dried blood and deep scratches, yet his face, when he turned toward her, looked lighter.
When their eyes met, Freya realized what had changed.
That silent tension that always lingered between them — a mix of pride, exhaustion, and unspoken distrust — had somehow vanished.
Maybe the battlefield had resolved what words never could.
Maybe it was simply the recognition between two survivors.
Aslan smiled.
It was a small, genuine smile — the kind that looked almost foreign on him, given his usual stoic demeanor.
"We had a good harvest today," he said, his deep voice carrying a rare trace of humor, as though the weight of the past days had finally lifted — if only for a moment.
Freya stopped before him, studying his face, her own expression softening in return.
The line, spoken with quiet irony, seemed oddly out of place after so much bloodshed…
and yet, she smiled back.