"Perhaps this is why he went mad."

White encompassed everything around Helen. She stood there, confused and yet also completely calm. Memory failed her, leaving the young girl with no recollection of anything coherent. All that was certain was her age.

Eight years old. Too young to know better, yet cognitive enough to remember certain things. Helen had a feeling that's what was happening. She looked around the whiteness, which somehow managed to beckon her forward.

With no other choice, the child took careful steps towards nothingness, the blank canvas around her slowly taking shape. Wooden floorboards and a roof formed around Helen. She recognized it as it built itself. A small house, a hut, really. Made with broken planks and rotted wood, the interior was cramped as it fitted the needs of two people.

Helen blinked and found herself looking up at a net that hung above the floor. Her bed, or what she called a bed. The thick ropes were padded with blankets to prevent any rope burn from tossing and turning during the nighttime. The child stared at them for a moment longer before she turned to the hut's entrance.

Even inside the building, the white glare of the void outside seeped through the cracks of the doorway and walls. An eerie sight, one that young Helen disliked very much. Still, her heart only began to thump when she heard the sounds of someone rising from behind.

The stench of alcohol reached Helen, who turned to look at its source. A woman with light brown hair, loose and ragged as it draped over her face like some veil for the dead. Her mother was once beautiful. Once fair and young. Yet age seemed to creep over her cheeks in the form of harsh wrinkles and crow's feet. Her breath stank of liquor.

Both daughter and mother stared at each other. Helen's voice caught in her throat as she tried to say something. Her mother grunted at that, ignoring the child as she rose from her cot on the ground. She stumbled toward the other side of the room, where the door shook slightly. Someone knocked on it.

Helen watched as her mother answered the door, her lips moving as she spoke. No words came out. The child couldn't hear anything, in fact, other than the man who had knocked.

"I'm sorry…" was all Helen could hear from him. He muttered other things under his breath, things she couldn't hear. Yet every now and then, a word or two reached her young ears.

"Raid… no body… the worst… I'm sorry."

Helen's mother sagged at the man's words, her knees touching the ground as her head hung forward. No screaming, no yelling. Just silent grief. The sight of it hurt Helen, who knew she could do nothing for her.

The young girl watched as the visitor turned, but not before leaving behind a bundle wrapped in a red banner. Helen stepped up to the doorway, confused as any child would. She reached a hand out to the bundle but stopped. Instead, the young girl ran outside of the hut, her mother unmoving from her slump.

Helen ran through the whiteness, her focus on the man who walked into its endless plane. She caught up to him not long after her run, her hand tugging at his dark brown cloak. His slow, methodical walk jerked to stop as if Helen's strength outmatched his own.

"Who are you?" Helen asked, her voice coming out in an echo.

The man turned to her, sullen. His hair was a wild blond, long enough to reach his shoulders. Through the strands that threatened to obscure his face, Helen could see a rough, unshaven beard accompanied by dark green eyes that held dark bags underneath. He had the look of someone utterly miserable, someone similar to her mother.

And yet, Helen could make out the spark that flashed in the man's eyes as he caught sight of her. Strength unmatched by any living mortal. Helen didn't know why she knew this. Her young mind could only recall the fear she had felt from gazing into this man's soul.

"You…" he muttered softly, kneeling down to her level. "You look just like him."

Helen froze in place, still paralyzed by this man's stare. Her focus moved to his collar, where she saw a golden pin shaped like a wolf's head.

Pain brought Helen back to the world of living, her throat raw as she tried to scream a warcry. She only managed a half shout before gurgling on her own spit and blood. Regardless, the veteran's instinct saved her life once again. Even without looking, Helen raised her shield in the general direction of danger, her arm struggling as it did so.

Right on cue, a heavy strike from an orc's club rang against the wooden disc, which vibrated violently but did not break.

'Vern wood,' Helen reminded herself, trying to keep herself conscious enough to fight properly. She had been slipping in and out of consciousness during this last stand, her mind fuzzy and her body feeling colder. She was dancing around the thin line of life and death, her mind and soul reaching beyond its limits just to stay awake.

Helen's vision cleared a bit as she focused on the immediate threat, an ugly orc who had tried to come from her blind spot. With a grunt of effort, Helen shoved him back with her shield arm, her right shoving whatever was left of her spear into the bastard's eyes. Blood speckled and spewed from the wound, causing the orc to howl in pain as he retreated.

Helen wanted to push the advantage, to finish the creature off. Yet she refrained as her midsection burned with agony. She winced as she stepped back, her breath heavy as she tried to recall her current state.

She was wounded. Heavily. Ran through by a lucky orc's javelin, the veteran had nearly died then and there. If it hadn't been for her fellow Ravens, she probably would've had her guts ripped out. Instead, Helen was left with a sizable spearhead buried within her torso, its broken shaft protruding like an angry thorn. Her body was battered and bloodied, her arm numb and possibly broken in some places. Even her weapon was in bad shape, its size halved and the tip already dulling.

Still, she kept fighting, her every move threatening to worsen her wounds.

"I'll kill as many as you fucks as I can!" Helen hissed as she dodged a strike from a clumsy orc who couldn't keep his footing on the bloodied marsh that had formed beneath them. Helen aimed her half spear at the oaf, thrusting forth with all her weight. The iron tip sank into the bastard's throat, spilling more dark blood onto the muddy ground. With a grunt and shout, Helen ripped the weapon out, opening the orc's throat to open air. She quickly moved to swing her weapon toward another one of the bastards who had stepped into her peripheral vision.

Her spear never made contact, as it was caught by the orc who had stepped in. Helen froze, her eyes looking up at the towering creature. He had red warpaint on the right side of his face and gold jewelry hanging around his neck. A Captain.

Helen quickly let go of her weapon, her feet backing up as she raised her shield in defense. The Captain's ax struck the wooden disc not even a second later, the force of it throwing her back. Miraculously, she managed to keep her footing despite her boots sinking deeper into the disgusting marsh beneath.

Helen clenched her jaw tightly as she unsheathed her short sword, its edge glinting as she swung it. The orc dodged the attack, his ax making a quick slash at her. Helen recoiled back, her vision reddening as blood ran down her cheeks. She roared in anger, her sword pointing forward and thrusting toward the Captain.

The orc simply caught it, his strength more than enough to stop its momentum. Helen stared at him, her breathing ragged and worn.

"I'll hand it to you," the orc muttered. "You fought well for a human. Better than your male compatriots even."

"Go fuck yourself," Helen spat. She could hear how her Ravens tried to fight their way toward her through the chaos, their shouts ringing out in the cacophony of battle.

"Get to the Marshal!"

"Marshal Dunn is in danger!"

"Dammit! Where are our reinforcements?!"

Helen watched as the Captain orc gave a dry chuckle, his ax hand pulling back for one more strike.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

For a moment, the Marshal wanted to let it happen. She was tired, exhausted, and wanted nothing more than rest. Even it was eternal.

'Are you really going to give up that easily? Even after everything?' a distant part of herself whispered.

'I am done,' Helen answered, her eyes watching the orc's ax. 'I had a good run.'

'A good run?' that little voice asked. 'Would your friends see it that way? Would your father, dead as he is, approve of this? Giving in is something that only proves Deimos was right about your weakness. It would mean your mother was right as well. Would you really give them the satisfaction?'

Helen's throat went dry. She thought back to the abuse. To the ridicule. To Deimos, his hand choking the life out of her as he called her weak. To her mother, who tried to suffocate her in her own bed, for she was nothing more than a mistake destined to die a useless death.

Something inside of her burned with fury. Helen could feel how something akin to hot liquor was injected into her veins, an adrenaline rush like no other. Her jaw clenched involuntarily, her muscles tensing as rage took over. The Marshal rushed forth without a word, her mouth open to a silent scream as she shoulder-bashed the orc.

Despite her injuries, despite her weakened state, Helen shoved the orc back in a burst of strength. He stumbled back in surprise, his ax going wide as it missed her. Helen didn't hesitate to raise her short sword once more, ready to strike. The brute tried to swing his ax back toward her in an attempt at a counterattack, but Helen dodged it, the wind whipping around her as she ducked under the swing.

She tilted her center gravity forward, her lungs taking in a sharp breath of cold air. Helen shot forth like a speeding arrow, her muscles growing warm as she aimed her blade. For that moment in time, she felt more alive than ever. Her blood was hot, and her heart thumped with renewed vigor. It was as if she had been hit with a wave of buffs and magical enhancements, vitality, and agility running through her veins.

'I won't go down without fighting.'

Helen stabbed at the orc's partial armor, the blade cutting clean through a gap underneath the armpit. She ripped out a moment later, spewing dark blood everywhere. The orc roared in pain, the oafish bastard turning to her in a rage. Helen dodged again, her feet agile as they navigated through the wet marsh. In only a second, she had circled the orc, her blade slashing once more at his gaps.

Another slash, another stab. Helen was like a surgeon, picking her moments and cuts carefully. She watched as the orc faltered in one of his swings, his ax slipping only for a bit. It was enough. The Marshal flicked her blade toward the orc's good hand, striking the ax's pommel. It flew out of his hand in a spin, leaving the brute open. Helen took her chance.

With a precise movement, the Marshal threw a stab at the orc's exposed chin. Her sword rammed into its underside, the blade's tip glinting red as it protruded from his nose. Helen twisted it for good measure before ripping it out in a shower of visceral blood.

The battlefield was silent for a moment. Every man and every orc had temporarily stopped to witness the sight of the Marshal, who stood above the Captain's corpse. She was panting heavily, her sword lowering as she caught her breath. Slowly, the adrenaline that had filled her slowly receded. Helen half-expected to drop dead at that moment, her injuries and blood loss finally catching up to her.

Yet nothing happened. The pain wasn't even as bad as it once was. In fact, Helen could feel her left arm again, her fingers responsive to her thoughts. The Marshal blinked at that, her breath slowly coming back to her just as the orcs around the frontline began to shout. She instantly readied herself, her sword rising as she expected an attack.

None came. Helen could only watch as the orcs backed away cautiously, their javelins and spears raised as they went on the defensive. The remaining orcs—the ones who weren't in her direct line of sight—ignored her and the other Ravens who were coming to her side. They had instead turned to the east, where a commotion was visible at their flanks.

Shouts and screams sounded out into the acrid air, a flash of red appearing amongst the greenskins who tried to hold their flank. Helen's eyes widened when she recognized the red hair that was flailing wildly.

'Lilith?!'

Helen's heart skipped a beat at the realization, her sore situation no longer at the front of her mind. She rushed forth toward the orcs who were trying to fend her off. Her Ravens, hesitantly, joined in on the fight, their spears and dull swords raised in challenge.

They crashed against the line of orcs, which broke more easily than expected. Helen found herself confused for a moment until she saw the fear in their eyes.

'They just saw their Captain get brutally executed by someone they thought was too weak to fight,' she thought. 'And now their flank is being torn apart by someone who knows how to kill their kind very well.'

The orcs had called Lilith 'The Butcher' after their tales of a creature that tore through orcs like a storm of blades. It seemed like the young woman's reputation had traveled to the rest of Blood-Irk's clan.

Still, Lilith was just a lone person fighting against a horde of orcs much stronger than her. The odds weren't in her favor, reputation or not. So Helen pushed with all her might, even with her boost of strength over and done with. She shoved and stabbed, her rallying cry reaching every Raven who was still standing.

Thankfully, it seemed as if her little show earlier had been enough to revitalize morale, even if it was a minor amount. It was enough for the Marshal, as her flanks were covered by spearmen and shield bearers. They waded through the horde of orcs in a tempest of iron and blood, their spirits still holding strong as they fought with all their might.

As Helen's forces cut through the orcs, the Marshal neglected to pay attention to their rear guard. For if she did, she would've seen the two-meter giant that had barreled through the line of Ravens in the back. Helen noticed it too late, as one of the guardsmen nearby shoved her just in time to avoid a heavy club.

It missed her just in time but struck the Raven head on. Helen watched with horror as the club crushed the man's helm like nothing, his skull crunching audibly underneath the steel.

"NO!"

She grabbed her sword from the muddy ground, her boots slipping as she tried to get up. No use. She was too slow. Helen saw how the orc shoved away her men like flies, his focus solely on her.

She could do nothing as the creature raised his bloodied cudgel once more, his eyes glinting with hatred.

"FOR BLOOD-IRK–!"

The orc's call was cut short when a man leaped through the line of clashing orcs and Ravens, green cloak flapping as he raised his bloodied sword. The flying man collided with the huge orc, who tasted his boots head-on.

Helen stared at Seamus Halvorson, who bent his knees at the collision, his weight behind the attack. He launched the orc a couple feet away, his body twisting in the air just right so he could land on the ground without losing his balance. A feat of agility that only someone empowered by a potion could achieve.

"Ugh!" the orc shouted in anger, his eyes turning to the young man. "You—!"

Seamus' sword flashed at that moment, his arms moving so quickly that Helen almost didn't catch it. The orc's words were cut off right after the movement, the oaf gurgling as a dark line appeared on his throat. The Ravens finally got to him right then, stabbing their spears into the brute even as he choked on his own blood.

Seamus watched the sight with grim resolution, his eyes glancing over to Helen.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his focus turning to the fight that raged behind him.

"I'm fine," Helen groaned as she stood back up, her sword arm shaking slightly. A result of her little adrenaline run. The exhaustion would take over soon if she wasn't careful.

"Fall back with the other Ravens," Seamus said, his focus still on the fight. He whistled toward the chaos, his pensive face relaxing a little as Lilith broke through the clash, a dozen cuts lining her arms and shoulders. Helen almost panicked at the sight but refrained as she examined the berserker's wounds. None were lethal, thank Freyja.

"Fall back?" Helen asked. "To the longhouse?"

Did they already need to enact their last resort?

"Dahlia's hut," Seamus said. He hesitated a moment, his eyes avoiding hers. "The longhouse has been… compromised. Falrick hasn't gotten any word from Felix."

Helen felt her chest tighten. "What? Compromised."

"There's a new backup plan," Seamus explained, his sword raising and stabbing at an orc who managed to get past the line of Ravens. The blade went clean through the orc's eye socket, the lunge enough to deal a lethal blow.

"And what's that?" Helen asked as she bashed her shield against another of the greenskins. Another Raven stepped in to ram his spear into the orc's ribs.

"We regroup and hold out," Seamus explained.

"That's it?"

"It's a work in progress!" Seamus shouted as he swung his sword.

"Dammit!" Helen cursed as she thrust her spear into the line of orcs. "How do you expect us to retreat safely, then?"

"Dahlia lent me her bag of runes when we left for Yorktown," Seamus said. "I just need you to say the word and get the fuck away. I'll handle the orcs."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain! Just go!"

Helen gritted her teeth, her eyes going to her men. They had whittled to the size of a barrack's worth, many of their allies either dead or injured by the Southern Front camp. If they were to retreat, they would need to get their recovering allies and run for it. Could Seamus really hold the orcs long enough?

'Just have some fucking faith in your friends already,' her inner voice said.

On any other day, Helen would've considered shutting that part of herself up. Now, with their constantly shifting situation, she could honestly give less of a fuck.

Helen gave the order.

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