She only took one more breath before she was cut down.
It was inevitable. She was too slow… too inexperienced… far beneath the woman she faced.
A flicker of horror passed over her face—then her body hit the dirt with a dull, sickening thud. The sword slipped from her grasp, clattering beside her as she clutched the gaping wound at her throat, blood pouring in warm, rhythmic surges between her fingers. Her mouth opened soundlessly, her eyes wild with disbelief, as though sheer will alone might stitch her skin back together—might hold her soul inside a moment longer.
The cheers returned. Louder. Wilder. As if her death had roused something primal in the crowd. The men dying had long grown dull to their senses. But this—this was new. The way her soft body fell, the crimson spill across her corset—this thrilled them.
