The world was a raw, screaming wound. Mud coated Ilsa’s tongue, grit grinding against her teeth, and the metallic tang of something thick filled her nostrils. Not a hospital operating room, certainly. Not the clean, sterile scent of iodine and ethanol. Here, the air was a brutal concoction of fear and iron, burning wood and unwashed bodies. Above the cacophony, a man’s shriek ripped through the din, shriller than the whistles of the Voryan legion scouts, more desperate than the clashing steel. Eliska Markova, or the ghost of her that still clung to Ilsa’s mind, tried to orient herself. The last thing she remembered was the sterile glow of a monitor, the hushed urgency of a late-night surgery, then… nothing. Now, this body. Ilsa’s body. Coarse linen tunic, skin caked with cold mud, bones that felt too large, too heavy, too *real*. Her hands, rough and calloused, didn't belong to a surgeon. But the instinct, the deep-seated reflex to respond to a medical emergency, flared hotter than the orange blaze consuming a timber-framed shanty. Beside her, a man lay thrashing, half-buried in the churned earth. His leg, or what remained of it, was a grotesque, mangled mess. A Vex-maddened skirmisher’s axe, half-buried in the mud nearby, had done its work. The bone was splintered, a jagged white shard protruding from a ruin of muscle and crimson. Blood, dark and arterial, pumped in rhythmic spurts, painting the mud a darker, glistening red. He whimpered, a broken sound, eyes wide and unfocused with shock and pain. “Nyn!” someone roared, a deep, gravelly voice. “Hold him!” But Nyn, a young recruit whose face was green with terror, only gaped. The man, an imperial soldier with the emblem of the Gryphonkin legion etched into his shoulder guard, was bleeding out. Fast. Eliska’s mind, despite the visceral horror and the alienness of this body, snapped into focus. Tourniquet. Immediate. Without hesitation, Ilsa ripped a strip from the hem of her mud-soaked tunic. The coarse fabric tore with a dry rasp. Her gaze darted, frantic but purposeful. A discarded javelin shaft lay nearby, snapped in half. Too long. Then, a thick branch, fallen from a nearby gnarled oak, beckoned. Perfect. She scrambled, ignoring the screams of battle, the thud of bodies, the desperate cries for the Father-Emperor. Her rough hands, guided by Eliska’s precise surgical knowledge, worked with a speed that defied their unfamiliarity. She looped the linen strip twice around the wounded infantryman’s thigh, just above the wound, pulling it as tight as she could. The man screamed, a raw, primal sound, but Ilsa didn’t flinch. She pressed the branch against the knot, twisting it, twisting it until the arterial gush slowed, then choked to a mere seep. The man’s frantic movements lessened, his face paling even further, but the frantic pulse of blood had ceased. “Hold this,” she snapped at Nyn, shoving the stick into his trembling hand. “Don’t let go.” Nyn, still staring, instinctively gripped the branch. The wounded soldier's breathing was shallow, ragged, but he was alive. The bleeding had stopped. Ilsa sagged back, mud squelching beneath her, her lungs burning. The roar of the skirmish felt muffled, hollowed out, as if she had stepped into a different world within the same battlefield. A shadow fell over her. A one-eyed officer, his face a roadmap of scars and his armor bearing the insignia of high rank, stood over her. His single eye, dark and sharp, fixed on the legionnaire’s leg, then on Ilsa’s mud-streaked face. His usually impassive expression was split by a flicker of something unreadable – shock, perhaps, or disbelief. He knelt, his heavy armor creaking, and prodded the tourniquet with a gloved finger. The bleeding had indeed stopped. The man was still alive. “What… what was that?” The officer's voice was a low growl, devoid of its usual authority, tinged with a strange awe. Ilsa swallowed, her throat dry. “He would have bled out. It stops the blood.” Her voice, Ilsa’s voice, was surprisingly steady, though a tremor ran through her core. The officer grunted, pushing himself back to his feet. He stared at her, a long, assessing look that made Ilsa’s skin prickle. It was a look that saw beyond the serf’s tunic, beyond the mud, into something Eliska hadn't intended to reveal. He turned his attention back to the broader chaos, shouting orders, his voice regaining its usual force. But the flicker in his eye remained. As the skirmish began to wane, the enemy forces, scattered and broken, retreated back into the dense Whisperwood. Ilsa, still kneeling by the injured man, had a moment to observe the Vex-maddened fighters they’d repelled. They weren't the snarling, grotesque beasts of the common campfire tales. Their faces were human, distorted by a horrifying madness, yes, but human nonetheless. Dilated pupils, wide and black. Tremors that racked their bodies. A manic, paranoid glaze in their eyes that spoke of intense fear and aggression. Symptoms. Not monstrous possession, but a medical condition. A terrifyingly familiar one, despite the archaic setting. It looked like a neurological or toxicological affliction, something she might have encountered in a crowded urban ER, not on a medieval battlefield. Her mind, Eliska’s mind, began to whir with possibilities, with questions. What caused this? How did it spread? Could it be… treatable? The thought was audacious, dangerous, exhilarating. Her ambition to understand and eradicate the Vex, to establish a safe, sanitary sanctuary free from servitude, felt less like a remote dream and more like an immediate, terrifyingly real mandate. Before she could dwell on it, the ground vibrated. A different kind of thrum, not the chaos of battle, but the rhythmic, disciplined march of heavy boots. The surviving troops stiffened. A hush fell over the mud-soaked field, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the crackle of burning timbers. Through the settling dust, a phalanx of figures emerged. Steel. Polished, gleaming steel, intricate designs etched into their breastplates. The Emperor’s personal guard, their crimson cloaks a stark contrast to the grim landscape. Tall, imposing, their faces impassive beneath plumed helmets. They moved with an unnerving silence, a predatory grace. The lead guard, a giant of a man with a hawk-like nose, scanned the battlefield, his gaze sweeping over the wounded, the dead, the dazed survivors. His eyes, cold and analytical, landed on the scarred officer. The one-eyed man, usually so unflappable, straightened, his posture rigid. The giant spoke, his voice deep and resonant, cutting through the silence. “Commander Grisha. We received reports of a breakthrough. What happened here?” Grisha’s single eye flickered towards Ilsa, who still knelt, forgotten for a moment, beside the stabilized soldier. He pointed a thick, armored finger at her, his voice booming with unexpected force. “She did this.”

A Different Kind of Blood