She rides atop a horse, bearing a flag so marred by blood that her allegiance swears itself to no Kingdom, but instead to those who have lost their names to the fields of battle.

She is injured, beaten, battered - bruised and broken in a way that no one will have her; a vase that has shattered, and though all the pieces are there, it will never be the same again. It is not the beautiful breed of broken, cleaned and neutered by a poet’s hand - is the true essence of destruction that claims and tames her.

And those who see her will name a victim a warrior. Sadder still, they will not be wrong.