Bleak with dread and pain surrounded her as she made it to the throne room through the passage she took. Her bare foot, scratched and bloodied, felt the soft carpet against skin. The sound of people shuffled and rustling of clothing entered her ears. They were still ringing, and her eyes were still blurry, unable to focus through the haze.
Raven hair was matted with the blood slipping down her temples, merging with those on her cheek to combine with the rest of her wounds. Her left arm was the worst of it; arrows still stuck through the limb dying the once creamed arm red. Her black dress was ripped and there were holes through the cloth. She reached her workable arm and touched the arrow, the one pierced mere centimeter from her heart, and pulled it out.
