That is when the doors swing open. Everything fades away, forgotten in her presence. The future queen of Ilya strides into the throne room, and every Elite falls silent. She is covered in dirt, streaked with blood. It freckles her face in a gruesome addition to the twenty-eight ones I know stretch across the bridge of her nose. Large tears in her clothing reveal jagged cuts beneath, softened only by the mud accompanying them. My eyes trail down the length of her, knowing just how much that blood must be affecting her. It’s coating her temple, her shoulder, her hands… Her hands. There, gripped
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