“The flag . . .” Contaph stares at her, a frown throwing his brow into deep furrows. Out among the enemy contingent the white flag flutters. She looks once, out across the wall. “A mistake,” she says. “It helps me adjust for the wind.” She arches her spine, drawing the bowstring back further across her breastplate . . . and the arrow is gone, just the hiss of it left behind amid our silence. The princess drops the bow and steps away from the wall. Behind her a high-pitched cry rings out. A pause. The sound of galloping. “Princess Gwen—” The cousin runs out of words. “Shot her sister . . .” The
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