She barely felt the cold as she stood in the grass, her spine rigid as the priest’s voice droned on and on, reciting the funeral rites. Her eyes remained fixed on the two wooden caskets that sat next to the freshly dug graves, and she wondered how she could feel nothing at all. No anger, sadness, fear, or regret. She had loved her parents dearly, and their deaths had been both painful and unfair. Shouldn’t she feel something? When the rebels had taken control of her family estate she had felt something then. Overwhelming, undeniable fear. The terror had ripped through her like jagged shards of glass as they broke through the heavy oak doors, as they’d hacked and slashed at not just the furniture and family heirlooms, but at flesh and blood. The lovely tapestries her mother had hand-woven were sliced to ribbons, the marble statues her father had looked so fondly upon smashed beyond recognition. Spatters of blood had stained the rugs and the walls, and if one of the servants hadn’t grabbed her and smuggled her out, she knew her own lifeblood would have been spilt as well.
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