image created by me using an ai-generating program.
The world was on fire.
Liffey could only stare in horror, slowly revolving on the spot as she took in everything happening around her. The ground was ablaze and Liffey was sure the sky was too. There was a loud buzzing in her ears, blocking out the blood-curdling screeching and the crackling snarl of the fire taking over the farm house in front of her.
She had been with the Blackwolds for less than a year. Joining up with them had not been a voluntary process, but Liffey had done anything she could to survive. She had bowed before dark servants, taken oaths with fingers crossed, and kept her head down. But this was too much. She couldn't breath, she couldn't see, she didn't think she could feel anything, though there was warm blood trickling down from a gash on her forehead. She took a halting, trembling step back, and then another. Someone was yelling her name and against her will her body turned towards the sound.
Aster was a girl who had joined around the same time Liffey had for similar reasons. They were close in age and they looked so similar that they could have been sisters. Liffey loved her, despite everything. Despite, despite, despite. She took a step toward Aster, her eyes widening in horror. Liffey's hand was trembling, she was unable to lift the sword she grasped. Aster screamed for Liffey, screamed for her friend to save her. And Liffey could have, had she not turned around and fled. Aster's scream was abruptly cut off and she was another brigand body littering the dirt.
The world was smoke and ash.
What men thought that this farm would be saved? What farmhands remained, wielding rusted swords and daggers? Liffey realized, with a stab of pain that she did not understand, that men from the surrounding fields had come to the aide of those the Blackwolds were attacking. She could not bear it. The shame as overwhelming, it crashed down on Liffey like cresting waves, over and over again. She did not choose this, she did not want this.
Her sword was not balanced or particularly well-made and if she was honest, she had never been suited to it. But she clung to it like it was her most worldly possession. No one tried to stop her, no one seemed to notice her at all. What was one young girl in a roaring blaze? But one did, he did. The man with the yellow teeth, the one that had grabbed Liffey by her hair and dragged her in front of his scouts eight months ago. The one who had beaten her in front of them while she submitted, agreed to whatever it took for it to stop. He did not know that Liffey was not coming to help, that as she lifted her sword she was not aiming for the man he was locked in battle with. He did not know that Liffey would meet him with death until her sword had been driven through his neck.
Something inside of her broke. Her gaze met the man's who now stood over her former leader. She turned, fleeing into the night.