I SIT MOTIONLESS A MOMENT until I can’t take it any longer. I bolt out of the tent. Cold wind slashes at my face.

My mind is sluggish, but my legs move. I run to the stable, climbing onto the black horse, bareback. He bolts out of the stable with surprising speed. I can feel his muscles rippling as he runs through the dirt street. In only a few moments, I’m back in the forest, branches and leaves scraping against my exposed skin. My untied hair billows behind me like a bronze banner. The horse’s hooves thunder against the forest floor, jumping over fallen logs and dodging loose branches.

Tears slide down my face as I urge the horse on. I can feel my affliction and sorrow flying behind me. I can see thin rays of sun filter through the dense trees. Carrie is gone. The words don’t seem to want to leave me. Memories of my sister and I dart in and out of my mind.

***

Four years before:

Three-year-old Carrie runs barefoot through the thick green grass carpeting the field. The warm sun is high overhead, grinning over Carrie. She stops and gives me a mischievous grin before kicking off her shoes. I only shake my head, smiling. She runs around picking up a large flower and looking at it for a moment before grinning again and continuing running, clutching the primrose in her small fist. She catches her breath. She fills her pink chubby cheeks with air when a purple butterfly lands on her nose. Small Carrie goes cross-eyed, trying to look at it. The two of them stare at each other for a long moment before Carrie gives a small sneeze, and it flutters off. She chases after it. It finally flutters off and Carrie comes and collapses onto my crossed legs. Her eyes, the colour of clouds before a rainstorm, crested with dark, thick eyelashes, look up at me with an enormous grin. Freckles poke out from her tanned skin onto her full cheeks and button nose. She places a chubby hand on my cheek.

“You are my prettiest big sister,” she says with a wide grin.

“You don’t have another big sister,” I say, poking her soft belly.

She giggles, trying to push my hand away.

“You’re the best big sister Carrie could ever have,” Carrie says, chewing the inside of her cheek before giggling and throwing her arms around my neck.

***

I wipe the tears away, digging my knees harder against the horse’s sides. All four hooves come to an abrupt halt. Scriptios. I do nothing.

Sitting upon horses are four warriors, all dressed in battle gear. They are ready for war. Knives and swords adorn their armour. I’m an idiot for coming out here alone when General Sanderson is looking for me; I’m an idiot for wearing a dress in case it comes to a fight; I’m an idiot for crying like a baby. The worst thing is that I didn’t think of grabbing any weapons. The only thing I have is a small throw knife strapped against my rib cage.

But I feel nothing. No fear or panic. I only sit calmly on my horse. The only thing bothering me is that I have let my hair down. I don’t remember the last time a male has seen my hair down. It’s a weird thing to feel when someone kills you, but that’s all I care about.

“Well, what do we have here? It’s the Traitor Girl. The one who can’t keep her loyalties straight,” comes the voice of General Sanderson from behind them.

The Scriptios move aside as their leader pushes his horse forward. I clench my jaw. General Sanderson glares at me. By the way, he looks at me, I can tell he is not a fan of the fact that I made him look like a fool. I slide off the horse. I can feel my white dress billowing behind me. I don’t know what to do. General Sanderson’s men take no time to surround me.

“Watch it. She’s Guater’s apprentice,” the General says, but nothing happens.

I don’t resist their attempt to tie me, and I soon find my hands and feet tied together.

***

I can feel the faint heat of the campfire against my face. I’m lying on the ground, curled up into a ball. My mind goes in circles. I don’t think up things they might do to me. My mind isn’t there anymore.

The sky is black, cold, and moonless. My head goes in circles, trying to catch up. I have spent my entire life promising myself that I could keep Carrie safe—and yet, only a couple miles off, her body lies cold and bloodless. My entire body shakes at the thought of it. I’ve failed her, just like I did seven months ago. I squeeze my eyes closed to keep the tears from running. Why do I have to mess up everything?

I can hear the Scriptios talking in low voices, huddled around the campfire a few feet away. I glance up to find General Sanderson staring at me as if trying to figure out what was wrong. He doesn’t know He does not know about Carrie. I don’t know if it’s for the better or worse.

“I’m going to deal with the brute. Stay here,” General Sanderson grumbles.

He gets up from the log he was sitting on and lumbers towards me. I only wrap my arms around my legs, waiting for the fatal blow. It never comes. Instead, he grabs my collar and drags me away. I wrap my arms tighter around myself as I bump against the twig-riddled ground.

***

When the pain finally slowly fades from the rough ride, I sit on the edge of a cliff. I pinch my lips together as not to throw up. Something very few people know is my dislike for heights. Honestly, dislike isn’t powerful enough. Hatred may be a more fitting word. A single glance at one can make me turn white as a sheet and pass out.

The general doesn’t draw out a blade and end me like what I’ve been thinking he will. Instead, he sits down on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling over the edge. A warm breeze skips across the night sky. It wraps around me like a comforting blanket. Green grass threads itself between my separated fingers. My hair still hangs in my back, waving at the breeze. Other than bruises and a few gashes, I seem relatively unharmed.

Stars dot the bright sky. It’s a warm summer night. Somewhere in the forest, a nightingale begins its song. A half-moon illuminates the waters below, sending flashing lights in return. A faint citrus smell rides the breeze, bringing me back to my childhood; sitting at the counter as Mother would pull a fresh loaf from the bakery; her soft, calloused hands delicately attending to the flowers in the kitchen.

“You know, I was very fond of your mother. We were engaged at one point,” General Sanderson says, voice still.

I sit quietly on the edge of the cliff, doing my best not to empty the content of my stomach. I’ve never heard this end of the story. I’m sure I look pretty sick, but for the first time, sitting on the edge of a cliff, my mind isn't sickened with worry.

“Jill always seemed to brighten up the place. But she slowly drifted away. We got into an argument. She kept saying that I was different, that I had turned cruel. She said that I was thirsty for power and no longer saw clearly. That was the last I saw of her. She left me for my brother. Gordon always got what he wanted. Never again did I see Jill. I used to watch the Guardian camps through a spyglass. Never was she there. But I watched you grow up; your first Celebration of Eight; you running to Black, the butcher’s shop. I did not know you had a sister. Then I find you, sneaking around. I should have had you executed the first day. But the way you looked at me was toxic. The same green eyes—I hate it. I spared you, but then you turned down my offer for life. There isn’t any turning back now. No more second chances. You and your little brat of a sister.”

I look down at my feet, but look back up at the sight of the drop.

“You’re wrong. My mother was sad she had to leave—and you’ve already killed Carrie,” I whisper.

General Sanderson’s head jerks in my direction.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“They poisoned the knife, General. One of your men killed Carrie.”

The general’s face goes white, although I’m not sure why. Back with the Guardians, everyone was fond of Carrie. She was lovable to anyone, really, but to General Sanderson? Why would he care if he was planning to do the same? I push the thought back as he clenches his jaw.

“If you’re messing with me, you’re going to be very sorry,” he hisses, but we both know it’s true.

“You’re going to kill me. What can be worse than dying?” I reply.

“Shut it, smart girl. I haven’t killed you yet,” he grumbles.

I bite my lip. Again, there is the question: why am I still alive?

“I’m sorry,” the general finally says, although his voice doesn’t seem to mean it, “but you are a constant reminder of my loss, the eyes, the way you pull your shoulders back. Everyone loves Darsal, the girl from the south, but you have to go. I’ve let the association between you and Jill into my head, which is already too far. I—I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

But this time, he seems to mean it. I can feel his hand push me forward and I slip off the edge, pummelling to my death a hundred feet below.