She didn’t know how to hold the sword.

Both hands reached out, gripping the hilt. The blade was long, thin, and embedded in the back of her father. She pulled it up and out. It changed nothing but the amount of blood which continued to spread across the floor, sinking in. A stain in the straw, under her feet.

One of those feet stepped back, turned out. The sword shook in front of her face, sharp edge dripping her father’s life down to her hands. A stain on her skin, under her skin.

The shadowed form rose on the other side of the room, framed in the moonlight.

She trembled, but held her ground.