How strange it is what a man – or woman – thinks, when they have passed the point at which the pain can hardly get any worse. How do such thoughts suddenly have significance?
'My body is ruined now,' she thought – a thought so distant from what a woman like Lasha would usually think. 'These cuts will scar. No man will ever look at my body and claim it to be beautiful.'
The strangest thought for her, considering how strongly she'd detested the notion of getting married as a youth. The very idea of being sent to a stranger for the good of her house repulsed her. She'd seen what men the noble world offered and she'd had no interest in any of them.
In contrast, the battlefield seemed like a relative paradise. Freedom, and danger, and death – but freedom more than anything else. Lying in her own blood, wracked with pain, it was a wonder to Blackthorn that she'd ever dreamed of such a thing.
Rivera's sword flashed, intending to bore out her neck.
