In the room of a conquered settlement, she'd made her place. Blackwell had offered it up to her as if on a silver platter, as if it made her feel anything near gratitude to ride in her carriage through a half charred city, and declare that it was her own.
The very lands that she'd grown up in, and now it was she that bore the torch of destruction that ran through them all. They neared the Pendragon capital, closer and closer with each passing day. She had a new respect for the men that had sworn loyalty to her, and fought her war under her – they were terrifying creatures.
Every time Blackwell, and Blackthorn and Karstly returned there was something fresh, some new grand victory, something terrifying that ought not have been. It was as if the world distorted purely for their purpose, and they could squeeze more out of it than any other.
