And although she was barely able to walk, she slowly climbed, supporting herself with her sword. There was no other way if she wanted to see for herself. She was too heavy to move, could no longer lift her arms perpendicular to her body.

Halfway up she couldn’t see or breathe anymore; she stopped to rip her helmet off, grunting as pain ripped through her shoulder, and threw it aside. It didn’t matter. The battle-

No, the war. The war was over.

And she shook sweat and tears from her face. A lock of black hair – silver, too, had she gotten so old between the dawn and dusk? – escaped its string and got in her eye. She couldn’t lift her arm again and so left it there though it vexed her. She resumed limping upwards, to the top…

Dark smoke, the Queen’s Gate in ruin, the moat full of corpses. Her heart fell into her stomach. She thought: a suicidal rush at the gate, let them cut me to pieces; but all she could do was fall where she stood, and she knew nothing else ‘til morning.