Five days passed quietly in Greyvale City, where life continued with its usual rhythm. Merchants opened their stalls at dawn and closed them at dusk, while guards rotated shifts along the walls with a practiced indifference.

The Adventurer Guild buzzed with activity, missions were accepted and completed, coins exchanged, and reputations slowly climbed. To an outsider, the city appeared unchanged.

But Mina felt differently. As she left the Guild after completing today's mission and began her familiar walk toward the outskirts of the city, toward the estate that served as both home and headquarters for her sister's mercenary group, a subtle tension settled in her chest.

It wasn't fear or excitement; it was something heavier, an instinctive awareness honed by years spent among warriors and killers.

The road leading away from the city gates started wide and clear, bordered by low stone walls and scattered farmland.

Mina walked at a leisurely pace, her pack lighter now, with her shield resting comfortably against her back. The sun hung high overhead, warm but not oppressive, casting long shadows that danced across her path.

As she ventured further, signs began to emerge.

First came the sound of boots, not the lazy shuffle of farmers or the steady march of guards but the disciplined rhythm of trained fighters. Multiple sets overlapped, moving with purpose. Mina slowed slightly, glancing toward a dirt trail branching off from the main road.

That's when she spotted them: figures moving in loose formation, armor scuffed and stained, weapons carried openly without concern for who might see them. They didn't stop or even glance her way; they knew their destination.

And so did she. Her steps quickened.

The manor rose from the land like a silent sentinel, its stone walls weathered yet sturdy, with banners hanging limp in the still air. For a moment, everything looked as it always had until Mina noticed something amiss.

A banner hung from the central tower, a crimson fabric emblazoned with a familiar sigil: a stylized blade wrapped in flame, the mercenary group's war banner. It was only flown upon returning from major contracts.

Mina's breath caught in her throat as she crossed into the outer grounds quickly now; boots crunching softly against gravel darkened by fresh stains, blood.

Not much, but enough to notice. Her eyes traced dragged footprints and smeared handprints along the stone, catching faint metallic scents lingering in the air. These weren't signs of an attack; they were signs of arrival, wounded returning home.

The courtyard bustled with activity as dozens of female mercenaries moved about efficiently.

Some cleaned weapons while others checked armor; a few sat on overturned crates as healers tended to them.

Conversations were low and clipped, the voices carrying exhaustion borne from surviving something costly.

When Mina stepped into view, several heads turned in surprise before recognition washed over their hardened faces; shoulders relaxed slightly as expressions softened just a fraction.

Mina nodded as she passed by, offering small smiles here and there. No one stopped her or questioned her presence. She belonged here just as much as any of them, despite her age and size.

The main doors to the manor stood ajar, and that alone sent her heart racing. They were never left open unless,...

She pushed them wide and stepped inside.

The great hall was dimly lit by scattered lanterns and the pale light filtering through high windows. Long tables lined the room; some were cleared, while others were cluttered with half-empty mugs, bandages, and equipment hastily set aside.

The scent of blood was stronger here, mingling with oil, sweat, and the faint herbal sharpness of healing salves. The room hummed with subdued activity as Mina took a step forward.

Then she felt it—the pressure. It washed over her without warning, a presence so dense it seemed to press against her skin, bones, and even the air she breathed.

Her instincts screamed at her; muscles tensed reflexively as her heart skipped a beat. It wasn't hostile, but it was overwhelming.

Mina froze for a moment, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Conversations faltered. The low murmur of voices dwindled until the hall fell into an almost reverent hush.

Mercenaries straightened where they stood; some unconsciously lowered their heads while others turned instinctively toward the far end of the hall.

Mina followed their gaze. At the head of the room, near the long table where contracts were usually reviewed, stood a figure she hadn't seen in days but could never forget, her sister.

She appeared taller than Mina remembered, not necessarily in height but somehow larger in presence, as if the world subtly bent around her.

Tight, battle-worn armor clung to her form, its surface scratched and nicked, each mark a testament to survival.

Crimson hair spilled down her back like living flame, tied loosely at the nape of her neck with strands escaping to frame a face sharpened by war.

A long red whip coiled at her side rested there like an extension of herself, its handle worn smooth from countless hours of use.

She spoke quietly to one of the senior mercenaries; her voice was low and controlled yet resonated through the hall with undeniable weight.

This wasn't a voice that had returned victorious and unscathed, it belonged to someone who had endured much more than anyone could see.

Mina swallowed hard as their eyes met for a heartbeat. In that instant, the pressure vanished, the suffocating presence that filled the hall receded like a tide pulling back from shore.

The sharp aura softened into something warmer and more familiar.

"Mina."

That single word sliced through the silence before life resumed again. Her sister crossed the distance in purposeful strides; armor clinking softly with each step while mercenaries instinctively parted ways without conscious thought.

Mina stood frozen, her heart racing as her sister approached and stopped right in front of her.

For a brief moment, silence hung between them.

Then, strong arms enveloped her. Mina barely had time to gasp before she was lifted off the ground, pulled into a tight embrace that pressed her face against familiar armor.

The scent of ash, blood, and steel surrounded her, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of relief.

"You're late," her sister murmured, her voice rough against Mina's ear.

Mina let out a weak laugh, wrapping her arms around her sister's neck. "Big sister, you're back."

"Of course I am," came the reply as she set Mina down but kept her hands firmly on Mina's shoulders.

Her sister's sharp gaze swept over Mina with practiced efficiency, checking for injuries. It lingered on the faint scars and healed wounds that hinted at recent battles.

Her eyes narrowed. "You fought."

Mina nodded. "I'm fine."

She felt a wave of relief knowing her sister was safe, though she could still hear the exhaustion in her voice.

War is never something to take lightly.After years spent alongside her sister's mercenary group and witnessing small-scale conflicts, she learned one crucial lesson: "War is the father of orphans."

The thought of being an orphan again was something she couldn't bear.

Her sister's jaw tightened as she straightened up, her presence swelling once more, not enough to intimidate but enough to remind everyone present who commanded attention in this space.

"Good," she said firmly. "We'll talk."

Around them, the mercenaries relaxed slightly; the tension in the hall eased but didn't vanish completely. Whispers began to circulate again, low and curious, with eyes darting between the two sisters.

Mina felt the weight of this moment settle over her. She had envisioned this reunion countless times during her journey back, rehearsing what she would say and how she would explain everything.

Now, standing here beneath the mercenary banner amidst bloodstains and battle-worn faces, reality felt heavier than any pack she'd ever carried.

Her sister was home. And everything was about to change.

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