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Isabelle was young, only sixteen; she had not yet learned that Everyone is a fool.
of winning, no matter how slim. They are called brave. Only a few will keep fighting when all hope is gone. They are called warriors.
Isabelle was a warrior once, though she has forgotten it.
“Here are the things girls die of: hunger, disease, accidents, childbirth, and violence. It takes more than heartache to kill a girl. Girls are tough as rocks.”
She needn’t have, though. The stomach is easily satisfied. It’s the hunger in our hearts that kills us.
Inside Isabelle, under her heart, the sleeping wolf woke.
A pretty girl must please the world. But an ugly girl? She’s free to please herself.”
Go now, girl. Remake the world.
Had the soldiers seen the determined set of her mouth and the fire in her eyes, they never would have let her.
Inside her, the wolf stopped gnawing. He became still. Tensed. Ready.
She was fearsome. She was strong. She was beautiful.
It is the magic of the human heart.
“No, of course not. Why would he? Why would you?” she asked. “But I don’t cut off toes anymore …” And then, with an earsplitting cry, she swung her blade high and sliced cleanly through Volkmar’s neck. “I cut off heads.”
