She was sitting atop the hill, gazing down at the city. The scent of lavender filled her nose, awakening long-lost memories of the past – simpler times when she was still a child, and her father would handle all the pesky business that landed on their doorstep. She fondly remembered picking flowers that grew near the palace walls made of limestone. Some were blue, others yellow, but mostly she adored the blood-red ones. Her fantastical memories were shattered by pain-filled cries from the city below that grew louder again. She frowned and pressed her left hand on her abdomen. This time, they wouldn’t return in time. Her father, husband, and brothers marched south while the enemy had chosen east. Arrows flew, blades rattled loudly, and smokey fires filled the sky. She prayed to her gods, all twelve of them, but feared they wouldn’t answer her pleas. Her hopelessness was interrupted by a sudden light, as a rider passed through the nearby smoke. Her husband was home, and although she smiled, the wound was too deep, and she died.
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