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ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｓｔ　ｓｔａｎｄ[hr][/center]
[@Rune_Alchemist]

A sound pierced the battlefield. A familiar sound--one that, despite everything, still meant everything to her. One that, despite the years and changes, that she would recognize in an instant. No, it was a voice of pain and resolve. A sound that she didn't wish to hear. A sound that she ran from all those years ago.

Both the sound of pain and resolve cut through the distant hums and clattering. Without a second thought, Estelle followed it. Through narrow alleys, she ran--faster than her usual measured jog. She stumbled on loose bricks. Her arms scraped and bounced against the walls as she took corners. Her breathing--ever measured and cautious to not over exert--quickened until her mouth was dry.

She couldn't see it as she crested the final turn--no, all she saw was a blur. An orange haze from the open flames across the city, a green smudge, and a smaller white droplet.

...

Without a second thought, she drew her longbow. Her eye nearly shut to block all but the bare minimum of light as if to reclaim one moment, even one drop of vision. Her body dropped lower to the ground--a refusal to shoot at what was beyond that green smudge. She didn't feel her body scream at her, no matter how hard she pulled her bowstring. Her quickened breath slowed for but one moment.

The same loud snap rang out.

The beast was pinned, flying further above and beyond the white droplet as the arrow continued its path with beast in tow.

Estelle stared in silence at the white droplet.

...

Even through ten years of age and her unworking eyes, Estelle knew who it was. Feelings of familiarity washed over her. She had purposely kept her distance, even after returning. While she had given ointments, supplies, and whatever she could spare to her sisters. But it was never face-to-face. Estelle's cowardice never allowed it. She had always left them outside their quarters. But now she was here--looking at how her sister had grown.

Her little sister who used to lie in bed with fevers. Her little sister who used to fall asleep to bedtime stories. Her little sister who now carried an estoc, proudly slaying the demon in front of her. Her little sister who had grown up well.

Compared to herself? Estelle's face was burnt and cut, bandages covering the worst of the damage. Her hair, once long and flowing, had been unevenly cut. Her cloak hid her withered and battered body. Were it not for her height and remaining eye, she would be unrecognizable.

The horns and calls to retreat echoed through the alleys. As if jolted awake, Estelle ran towards Ophelia and went to grasp her hand--to lead her away.

It was a cold hand. One that was nearly all bone. One that felt like it would break if one squeezed too hard.