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Not once in her four years had there been war. Whispers of it, rumors, certainly. But no bloodshed greater then the occasional death, nothing terrible and grand to attempt to shatter her. Yet still there was something in her that had changed, something that had grown cold when she was a child and turned wicked as she grew. No more could she lose her innocence, but the little girl was lost and now she had become the predator. Men who meant nothing, one after the other, men who had served no purpose until the last man had given her sons.
And she had failed one of them.
The crow’s talons clutched her shoulder, but she did not break her gaze from the woman that she called sister. She saw weakness and saw herself on the ground. Dimly she was aware of an ancient beast stirring in her soul and knew that she had done wrong. That was how it was though, wasn’t it? Aurèle always did something wrong and had no one to blame except herself. She did not need to wear her scars to feel them.
“You mourn her and continue to live,” she said.