She swallowed the bitter taste lingering on her tongue, her throat working in a tight swallow. She said nothing, though the night breeze pressed the diaphanous silk of her robes against her skin, making her suddenly very aware of how little she wore.
"—He perished."
"—Yes."
"—Were you the primary wife, or—"
"—The seventh," she cut in. Her tone was brittle, dry as ash. "—He kept a harem of seven. I was the last. Curiously, I was also the only idiot who marched onto that blood-soaked field beside him."
The other six possessed a keen sense of self-preservation that I glaringly lacked.
She didn't whine or coat the admission in tragic self-pity. She merely laid the humiliating truth bare. It was offered up like a cold, hardened artifact she had long since buried in the back of her mind.
He kept walking.
