One last time Fringilla looks back at the high walls of Cintra before she flees north.
For the June of Doom prompt: 15 "Presumed Dead"
One last time Fringilla looks back over her shoulder across the stinking dump at the high walls of the city. Cintra, or Xin'trea. Her city. What a laugh. It was never hers. It was always his. She was his. His to save and his to condemn. His to promote, to elevate above every other sorcerer and sorceress in Nilfgaard, and his to drop like a hot potato. His to trample into the ground, to squash under the heels of his riding boots. His to poison day in, day out, with the most expensive of wines. What a death to die of! Only that she is not dead.
NOT DEAD!
She wants to scream the words into his face, the face of her saviour, her Emperor, the benevolent White Flame she would gladly have died for just a couple of months ago. Now not so much. Now she wants him dead. Wants him to die for what he has done to her. But first she will live, just to spite him. Yes, she will live and have fun while making plans for her revenge. Revenge is sweet and a dish best served cold. At a time when he will least expect it. She can already taste its delicious aroma on her lips. The taste of vengeance - even better than the most exquisite wine. She will take from him what he loves most. She, the sorceress who he presumes has died tonight. She laughs best that laughs last. He will hear her laugh straight in his face. And he will wish he had never put her in that Cintrean cellar, forced to drink herself to death.
Stinking of booze, shit and rot and corpses, but finally, finally free to think for herself, to be herself, Fringilla walks through the nightly forest. North.