The sun was dipping low as Myrrh mounted her horse. Around her were the men who had attacked her, sprawled out and face down. They were nothing more than unpaid infantry for the rebellion, hardly trained and full of misguided anger. They had attacked her for the banner she wore across her breastplate. She doubted they would have ever beaten her, though there were five, but they had laid a few blows to her side and face and separated her from her camp.

She rode down the hill, holding her ribcage where a bruise was sure to be blossoming. Over the way was a small village. Typically, King's Soldiers were told not to go into villages, as most rebels were coming from poor, rural areas, but she needed a place to check her wounds. She set her horse to a gallop and came to a squat little cottage on the very edge of town, the furthest she could do.

Banging on the door produced nothing so she forced it open and burst into a kitchen. There was stew, which she ignored, and an open chest of medical supplies, which she aimed for. Digging through them, she shucked off her armor and found what she needed. She sat on one of the low, wooden stools and began to tend to her wounds when the door leading to the rest of the house creaked open.