The White Rose

1. Bloodiest of Hands

4A 676, End of Sulunary, Harvest. Six years after the Abyssal War.

The man is going to die. Nura knows this with absolute certainty. He clings to life, fighting with every breath in his body, but Nura sees it in his darting eyes; he knows it too.

She takes an unsteady step back to take in the entirety of the scene before her. Blood drips to the floorboards, running in rivulets through the grooves to leave a stain that will never wash away. Some of it is thick from clotting.

She clenches her jaw, wipes the stark crimson from her hands onto her stained apron, and damns the world for making this her place in it.

"Say your last prayers for him, Frida," the priest urges. He nudges the wide-eyed girl forward, but she's not eager to go. Her feet drag upon the bloody floorboards and her trembling hands twist within the fabric of her shirt.

The dying man raises a hand and beckons the little girl closer to him with a twitch of his fingers. The girl doesn't move, the dark room descending into a beat of silence where only the patter of blood can be heard. Then she launches herself to the man and wraps her small arms around his chest. She buries her face in his neck and Nura can't watch anymore as the little girl weeps against her father's pallid skin.

Each breath he draws is a loud rasp in his lungs, the air escaping his side in a whistle from where the arrow pierced. His arms are too weak to hold his little girl, too weak to even turn his head and kiss her goodbye.

Nura's light blue gaze strays once more to the man's leg, the limb partially missing. It took three of them to remove the bear trap from his leg before they realised the extent of the damage. The poison was already in his blood.

The priest utters soft words, barely audible over the cries of the child.

Nura stays until the man lay still and the girl's older brother takes her away. She stays until the blood stops dripping. She stays until she can no longer feel the wetness sliding between her fingers.

"Nura."

She blinks and looks up at the priest as he regards her with dark eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Go home, Nura," the priest says, his voice cold as he gazes upon the man on the table. "Just another casualty of Elven injustice." The priest leaves the rest of his words buried beneath his tongue, but Nura knows they're there. She knows that many people in this village look at her and can only see her large, icy blue eyes, her unblemished skin, and nothing more.

She manages a nod in reply, eager to leave the suffocating presence of the priest before he can begin blaming her for another death.

Nura leaves the home and steps into the brisk night, a chill to the air that crawls into her bones and nestles there. She tries to breathe in the air, but mingling with the pine on the wind is the coppery tang she can never escape.

Another villager dead and she couldn't save him. Just like the last four in the past month.

Nura shoves her hair from her eyes as tears prick at them, but she refuses to cry. She trudges through the muddy street, untying the bloody apron as she goes. The knot tightens, her aching fingers unable to pry away the offending material.

She lets out a curse, a tear drips down her cheek, and Nura lashes out. Her knuckles split on the wood of the home, more blood upon her hands. This time she does feel it and Nura hisses, cradling her abused hand to her chest. It throbs, a heartbeat of pain that flashes up her arm, but she welcomes it to distract her from the ice crawling through her chest.

"There you are."

Nura straightens at the voice, dashing the tears from her cheeks, leaving behind streaks of blood. She takes a steadying breath and turns to the figure that approaches her, the lamps on the street illuminating his wide-set shoulders and tall frame.