40
Ena
I remember the first man I ever killed. He had a scar on his lip and gray-blue eyes.
He should have been an ally, but he broke the rules of the envoy. A finger grazed across my breast had forged his doom.
I didn’t want to kill him. I didn’t want the weight of his death on my shoulders. But I didn’t have a choice. So I took the knife they gave me, and I sliced through his gut.
I remember the warmth of his blood pouring over my hand.
I don’t think I will ever forget that feeling.
But I have grown accustomed to it.
The others gathered in the cathedral square did not wear such armor.
I weaved through the crowd toward the cathedral steps, ignoring the stares of those I passed.
I hadn’t tried to hide the marks the battle had left on me. The bruises, the cuts―they proved I had su
