By dawn, the storm had calmed down. The Nimbus cloud that had cloaked the southern peaks of Alta-Tierra drew back at last, dissolving like a pale veil lifted from a bride's face.

A thin blade of white light pierced through the canopy of green, scattering across the damp forest floor. It fell upon Lara's face — her lashes quivered, her skin glowed faintly beneath the sun's first touch, and her lips, dry and cracked, parted with a faint murmur.

Half-dreaming, she raised a trembling hand to shield her eyes. When she blinked away the glare, she found herself staring into the sharp, assessing gaze of a man in fatigues. His hair was cropped close to his head, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and a gun hung from his side.

"What's a little girl doing out here, in the heart of the forest?" he asked, voice deep but laced with curiosity.

Lara blinked again — and the man blurred, his shape fracturing into several figures, each armored, each armed. The glint of swords and spear tips caught the morning light. They were pointed at her.

"What's a woman doing in the middle of nowhere?" a bearded man demanded, stepping forward. His face was hardened by years of battle.

"Could she be General Odin's daughter?" a soldier muttered, narrowing his eyes.

"But if she is," said another, "then where are the others?"

The commander — a tall man with eyes like flint — studied her for a long moment before asking. "Who are you?"

Lara's head throbbed; every muscle in her body ached as though she had been beaten by the storm itself. A chill ran through her limbs. She tightened her grip around the dagger hidden in her palm, carving a small, deliberate mark into the stone beside her, a sign for someone yet to come.

"I'm a villager," she began, her voice hoarse and trembling. "From the foot of Mount Etna. My husband came to hunt, and I came with him to gather herbs in the forest, but we were chased by tigers. We got separated, and I... I had no choice but to cross the bridge to escape." Her eyes flickered, as though reliving the terror. "Then the storm struck, and I took shelter here."

The commander's gaze swept over her — the mud-streaked face, the torn sleeves, the trembling hands. Everything about her spoke of hardship, of fear.

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. One of them opened his mouth to speak, but before a word could leave his lips, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the silence.

"Commander!" A soldier stumbled into view, panting. "Bad news — the hanging bridge is gone. Snapped clean in half. And… there's no sign of our men."

"What?" The commander's tone darkened. "Did they fall to their deaths?"

"That's impossible!" another soldier protested. "Those were Zura's elite — jungle warfare experts. They wouldn't die so easily."

"Come, let us investigate!" The commander uttered.

When the soldiers finally turned their backs, Lara seized her chance. She slipped into the trees like a breath of wind, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The rain had passed hours ago, yet the forest still wept—droplets slid from leaves and fell like whispered warnings. The air was thick with the scent of moss and wet bark, and every step she took through the sodden mud seemed too loud and dangerous. But there was no turning back now. She had to reach the river.

When at last the forest thinned, she saw it—the River Praya. Morning sunlight glimmered faintly on its restless surface, casting ripples of gold and silver that danced like a promise.

Her legs trembled beneath her, numb from fatigue and cold, but the sight of a small transport boat tethered loosely to the dock ignited a fragile spark of hope. If she could just cross to the other side, if she could just make it to Calma… safety might still be possible.

She stumbled toward the bank of the river—but voices froze her in place. Before she could retreat, a cloud of smoke engulfed her, and she lost consciousness.

"General Turik, why do we need to drug her? Isn't it shameful for us? There are three generals here, and yet we played dirty." The youngest of the generals said.

"Fool! You want to suffer the same fate as Tyron?" Turik snapped back.

The sharp rebuke cut through the morning stillness. General Turik rose from where he sat at the edge of the dock, his gauntlets glinting like shards of steel. His shadow stretched long over the riverbank, and his voice was rough with restrained fury.

Across from him stood General Zamree, the least experienced but no less hardened of the two. He met Turik's glare with an unflinching calm, though his jaw tightened.

"Tyron underestimated her," Turik said, his tone low but steady. "And it caused his death. Odin's daughter is not like the others—she is not easy to capture."

Another general spat into the water, his patience thinning. "You talk as if she's some phantom. She is just one woman. Look at her, bleeding and unconscious."

"And yet," Zamree countered, stepping closer, "she's made it farther than any of us expected. She took out so many of our men. How did she outwit those soldiers that only six of them survived?"

Turik's eyes flickered when he remembered the account of the six survivors.

Their commander confessed that Tyron miscalculated when he let Lara step on the hanging bridge first. It was their doom.

"I wished I had seen her cross the bridge, being tossed by the wind with her hands bound." General Zamree said. "And how she fought to the very end and caused Tyron to fall."

Turik's glare hardened. "Enough glorifying her. She is our enemy and, fortunately, our captive now, not a hero. And I'll not lose any more men to chase a ghost through the marshes."

The oldest among the three generals turned his gaze toward the river, watching the faint ripples catch the sunlight, then to where Lara lay crumpled on the ground. "I could not believe that our enemy is just a young woman. What a disgrace!"

Turik just snorted. "Between honor and losing more men, I'd rather choose the first." He nodded to the soldiers who had surrounded Lara. "Take him to the palace and leak the news that General Odin's son was now a captive of Zura."