A little girl caught up in the chaos of an attack. Possible prologue for my novel.
The little girl stood in the chaos of battle, clutching a gold-hilted dagger to her chest as she rocked back and forth on her heels. The fresh wound on her forehead bled, bullets of blood dripping down the side of her cheek and off the edge of her chin. Her eyes were open but unseeing as she listened to the screams of dying men, women, and children; to the battle cry of the bandits; to clashing swords, burning buildings, the explosions of overheated glass.Â
She heard it all.
Even the people's thoughts. They slipped inside her mind like her own thoughts would, but these thoughts had different tones, and hinted at knowledge she didn't hold quite yet. She wished, more than everything, for the thoughts to stop. Quiet. That's all she asked for.Â
Quiet, quiet, quiet.
In a matter of hours, the concrete life she had known was chipped, cracked, and broken. She knew what death was, how it happened, how unnatural it could be. She felt true fear--the fatal kind that could kill long before the sword. There was no more peace--no more quiet.
Where were the brave warriors of whom her mother spoke?
Where was her savior--her knight in shining armor?
Didn't she deserve to be saved?
Fleeing villagers pushed past the girl, bringing her to her knees. She shuffled forward, reaching out a hand to pat the ground. She wanted to ask for help, scream for someone to rescue her, but the words were stuck in her throat. She could do nothing but wait.Â
The little girl stopped crawling forward and curled into a ball on the ground, gripping her crystal rose necklace in one hand and the dagger in the other. Small, terrified sobs wracked her body.
She hoped the bandits would believe she was dead.
With her luck, they wouldn't. Â