The glow of burning rooftops painted her armor in shades of ember and ash. Smoke curled around Claire's helm as she removed her blade from the last bandit's corpse, sword slick with his blood. The village lay broken behind at her back, but she heard something else—soft, desperate, coughing.

She followed the sound to a half-collapsed cottage. Inside, leaning against a charred beam, was a little girl no older than eight. An arrow, its feathered end splintered, protruded from her chest. Her dress was smeared with soot; one small hand trembled against the beam, barely keeping herself from falling.

Clair dropped to her knees. Her gauntlet fingers shook as she braced the child's head against her breastplate. She knew that the little girl probably wouldn't make it. “Shh... it's okay.” She whispered, keeping her voice steady despite everything.

The girl’s eyelids fluttered. “Mama?” She croaked.

Clair swallowed around a lump in her throat. “She’s coming. She’s coming,” she lied, forcing a smile on her face. She wanted to scream. At the heavens, at herself. But all that came out was a shaky promise. “You’ll live. I swear–”

And then the girl’s hand went limp. Silence pressed in, heavy as the smoke around them. Clair pressed her forehead to the child's, tears dropping silently onto the child's face.

The moon cast a pale light through the canopy as the carriage wheels groaned to a halt. It had been a long day’s ride, sharing company with strangers. Clair moved like a ghost through the motions, helping pitch tents and gather firewood. Some of the others tried to speak with her, but she barely replied besides the occasional “mhm”.

As the night deepened, the fire crackled and sparkled like a memory she buried. Laughter surrounded her, but she couldn't join in. The driver—an old man with a crooked smile and sun-kissed hands—uncorked a bottle of deep red wine. “I’ve been saving this for a while now, and what would be a better time to use this than now? Sharing drinks with strangers is always better than drinking alone.” He said, pouring a generous measure into each wooden cup.

He passed one to her. Reflex alone made her take it. The color was dark, like congealed blood. The fire flared, and for a moment all she saw were houses burning again... and the little girl's hand going limp.

She blinked, cup trembling in her grasp. “I need a moment.” She said stiffly, and before anyone could press, she turned and strode into the forest nearby. Ten paces in, the nausea surged.

She dropped the cup and doubled over, retching behind an old tree. Nothing came up at first but bile and guilt. The little girl's rasping voice “Mama?” resounded in her mind. If she hadn't drunk herself half-blind that night, if she had been prepared, if she had acted like the hero people saw her as, she might have been able to save her.

When it passed, Clair stayed crouched down, arms wrapped around herself. The laughter from the camp seemed to almost mock her. Then a snap of a twig, her head turned fast, eyes locking onto the man who followed her.

Her mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. Only a small, quiet sniffle.