THIRTY-FOUR
When Vasco reached Bianca's side, it was already too late to stop her from seeing the horror no one should ever be subjected to. The corpse-strewn beach had bodies in various states of decay, from scattered bones to a cadaver so fresh the flesh the crows ripped off it was still red and moist. No, not crows – ravens, he corrected himself. He counted a dozen of them picking at the corpse, which still wore the tatters of clothing in a particularly brilliant shade of pink.
He knew the expression on her face all too well. Every soldier viewing a battlefield for the first time looked like that. But she was no soldier. Why, the princess had probably never seen blood that was not her own until today.
"Princess," he whispered.
No response. Her mouth gaped, but no sound came out.
