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This isn’t the first time that Kedosa has used flaming arrows against them. This isn’t the first time that she’s seen a tent catch fire and quickly become engulfed. There’s absolutely no reason that she should be frozen here, feet rooted to the ground, while the battle rages around her.
But a wave of heat washes over her, and suddenly she’s twelve years old again. Suddenly it’s not a tent burning in front of her, but her own home, and people - her people, her family and her neighbors - are screaming while the sparks fly up into the sky, spinning madly, extinguishing into ash and floating lazily away.
There are tears streaking her cheeks, but they dry almost instantly in the heat of the fire. Her shoulder is burning, burning, and she can’t even recall why at the moment, but it seems insignificant when compared to the fact that she can’t find her mother.
Horses’ hooves thunder by. There’s so much screaming, so much blood.
She doesn’t understand why.
Just as she opens her mouth to add her own scream to those of her people, a fist collides with her cheekbone. The ground that she falls onto isn’t charred grass, it’s dirt, packed down hard and marked with the boot prints of soldiers. Screams fade into shouted orders. She rolls over and stares up into the face of one of Ethorcon’s Majors.
“Stupid, worthless woman,” he spits. “Stop just standing there and start putting out fires!”
She isn’t twelve years old. This isn’t her village, and tears haven’t touched her cheeks in eighteen years.
Her shoulder still burns, but she’s learned to ignore it.