Bodies laid in front of her, beside her, behind her, all around her. The air hung heavy, thick with the smell of death and smoke and burnt flesh. She could hear a man retching from it somewhere behind her. He wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last.
Visenya stopped amongst the carnage and took a deep breath. The smell was comforting to her. It smelled of home, and victory, and possibilities. It smelled of her dragon, as familiar and natural to her as her mother’s milk.
She walked on, stepping through the bodies and the blood and the burns, until she came to a man, sobbing and pleading for death. Kneeling, she took the man’s face in her hand; dirt and sweat and blood streaked together as she ran her finger over his cheek.
“What is your name?” She asked, soft as a child.
The man’s words came out in a gurgle of blood and spittle. She did not understand, but it did not matter. She unsheathed the dagger strapped to her thigh and slit his throat. The blood ran red and bright to the ground, singeing as it touched the blackened earth.
Red and black. Fire and blood. Visenya smiled and walked to the next pleading man.