For the first time in her life, Salvia had tasted fear and known what it was. It tasted like iron. Her body was very still, and she felt every wound, every bruised part of her skin that would come to torment her in the following days. Never before had she felt such agony; never before had she looked upon her own death. There was a stark reality to this lesson, for a part of her knew it was such. Rebellion had no room under the hand of her uncle-king, and he had no mercy for anyone—not even her.
Yet he released her. She watched him with hazy eyes, watched as he rose. For an instant she remained still, but then a barking command was issued. Quickly, the girl scrambled to her feet. She staggered away from him, only regaining composure when she no longer looked him in the eye. Head bowed, Salvia bolted out into the cold night air. It pierced her desperate lungs with a pain almost as sharp as the one around her throat. She sucked it in, heard an odd, half-choked sob escape her.
She forced composure onto herself and disappeared into the night.
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