Rachel set her candle stand down and drew her swords. Somewhere, during the skirmish that followed, a severed leg almost toppled her candle stand. She put out a hand to steady it.
Some, the less hardy of them, fled at the sight of her. Ever afterwards, there would be a legend of a ghost in a torn white dress drenched in red blood, with crimson hair and a devilish grin.
It was a world that could never be the same. A world that a woman would boldly change.
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