It was a windy night. A woman, forlorn and tired, walked into a cottage-style antique store. She carried with her two box-shaped objects strapped over both her shoulders. She set them down on the slightly dusty table gently, and found herself a creaking old stool in the corner. She sat in front of the boxes.

  The woman was tall, standing at six foot three, with silver-blond hair. Minus the armor caked in mud and dark crimson splotches, the cold, hardened expression, and the remarkable sword at her waist, she would still intimidate with height alone. She slightly relaxed and sighed, a mild, unamused chuckle following at her situation. She couldn’t cry; that was beaten out of her long ago.

  She stared at the boxes. She wished she hadn’t participated in this war; she’d lost so much. She stared at the boxes. She wished her sister and cousins hadn’t gone and gotten themselves killed to protect this place. It wasn’t worth it. She stared at the boxes. And she dearly wished they hadn’t saddled her—the most worn and torn of them all—with such a burden.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  She stared at the cribs. She opened them. On one side, the rune-covered lid was removed, and a violet-haired, crimson-eyed baby began to wail, only sinking her mood further. On the other side, a violet-eyed, blond-haired baby stared back at her with what seemed to be curiosity. She’d seen all too much; it brought her a headache just thinking of the future.

  She sighed. Well, the least she could do for her family and the peace they’d sacrificed their lives for was to raise these children right. She looked around the store.

  “Well. Time to get to it,” she thought, and began a new life—one she hoped would be worth all that had been given.