Dakshana had abandoned the fur cloak long ago, and her bare feet were raw, sore, from the walking, but she had to keep going. She could see the glow of the village fires on the hill over her shoulder; she had to walk until she couldn’t see them any longer. Why was she still walking? She’d deserved to die. She was weak and human, had been a mere doll in the web of ancient shadows, creatures without souls. One of them - the youngest, weakest, most foolish - had claimed he loved her.
But she was human and frail, a toy.
Human.
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