According to her people, Tara had been born for greatness.
Even as a child, the soft whispers of "Our Foretold One" would accompany her wherever she went, the words of a prophecy spoken eons ago commemorated again and again. If one thing was certain, it was that they would never be forgotten as long as Tara lived.
Training and hard work, paired with the expectations of her people, molded her into the perfect warrior. The encouraging words that poured from their lips made her proud and strong. She would take back what was lost; it was her birthright to lead her kingdom into a new golden age and become their heroine.
However, as she stared down at the corpse of a young man, she felt anything but a hero. The genuine hope she had seen painted on the boy's face when she entered the hut overwhelmed her. Almost as much as the unmatched terror had when she struck him down with a quick swipe of her blades. Never before had Tara experienced such broad, vivid emotion. It drained her, like nothing else could.
A sudden swish of fabric alerted her to another presence; she whirled around, blades held high, only to see two familiar slitted eyes staring at her from beyond a dark cloak.
" Anguis," her voice was thick, clogged, as if she had fallen sick. " What do you need?"
" Pardon me, your excellenccce. I come merely to inform you about the sstatusss of the battle."
At her nod the thing grinned, revealing rows of fanged teeth, before continuing its sibilant hissing. "Victory iss nie. We sshall ssoon desstroy the lasst of thessse land-sstealing scum, before moving on to the capital."
" Losses?" Tara's voice was soft as she stared at the dead boy. He had curly hair. Like hers.
" Minimal. Thiss village wass eassy. Ill prepared."
A heart wrenching, girlish scream sounded from the battlefield, abruptly cut short. Tara sighed and sheathed her bloodstained swords, not bothering to wipe them off. At this point it seemed they would never be clean.
"Most... excellent news, Anguis. You may return fighting."
Bloodlust lit up his eyes, and he offered a quick bow of the head, illuminating, for a brief moment, a scaly snout. Then he was gone.
Stepping around the body, Tara walked over to the dying fire in the middle of the room. Bending over, she selected a long, unburnt stick from the edge of the hearth, wrapped a thin layer of cloth around it, and poured some thick, flammable liquid from her flask over the top. She then thrust the stick into the embers, holding it steady until it ignited.
Lifting up her makeshift torch, she stared into the flame, flickering softly due to a light breeze blowing through the open doorway. No matter what, she decided, she could not let her people down. She could not let feelings abash her. She had to be the heroine they needed. And in order to do that, tradition must be upheld.
Like a member of a second party, she watched her own fingers unclench, and the torch fall slowly to the ground. Dazed, she turned away, listening as the hay-filled floor caught on fire.
Tara didn't turn to look at the damage she caused. Instead she strode away, fixating her eyes on the distant tree line.
Behind her, the crackling fire mocked, "Long lived Tara the Great," it called, "Destroyer of Souls."
