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Amastan’s gaze softened. “You are no longer queen, nor slave. You are something greater now. You choose your violence.”
She closed her eyes against tears.
> Perhaps there is no innocence left in the world. Only the dignity of choosing whom we raise a blade to, and whom we save.
Later, washing blood from her hands in a desert spring, Anna trembled. Amastan crouched beside her, gripping her wrists.
“You are shaking.”
“I killed him,” she whispered.
“You saved the boy.”
“He was still a man. A man I killed.”
Anna saw a merchant grab a captive boy as shield. Without thinking, she ran forward, snatching a fallen blade, driving it into the man’s exposed side. His eyes widened in shock before death closed them forever. The boy scrambled free, eyes wide with terror and awe.
They struck at dawn. The caravan of merchants of captives wound across pale dunes, unaware of silent shadows gathering along the ridge. Anna crouched behind a thorn bush, heart hammering. Amastan raised his hand. Tuareg warriors unleashed their fury – spears flew, camels screamed, men fell bleeding onto sand that drank their lives without mercy.
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Inspired by @Diane-de-la-Cheneraye