The grayish glow of dawn slowly crept over the camp, and the traces of the night’s battle lay everywhere. Dried blood soaked into the ground in dark patches on the grass, the torn canvas of tents flapped in the wind, and the horses pawed nervously as if they could still sense the presence of the strays. The warriors moved in silence, weary and grim: binding wounds, laying down the dead, trying to restore at least the appearance of order. The night had battered everyone.
I lay on the ground, clutching my side. My wound throbbed, and with every breath it felt as though my flesh was being torn open again and again. The cold earth pricked my skin, my hair was matted with sweat and blood. My body was bare, and though I tried to cover myself with my arms, it wasn’t shame that troubled me most—i
