Radasanth had burned.

Radasanth had cried.

Radasanth had lost so many lives.

But she had survived.

And now Philomel van der Aart, Matriarch and defender of the people, was striding up to the hallowed halls of the Citadel that mostly still stood tall, with her head held high. For days now she had worked endless hours in toil of bringing the city back to working order. She had met with members of the Assembly, countless warriors and volunteers, organising the clearing of the rubble and the arrangement of sick beds for those who needed it. Indeed, she had even been here, but in the workshops of the monks, where the ill and helpless were being tended to, not in the taller towers of the battlefields. All of her time had been dedicated to those who needed it, to bringing the city back to its feet, and to those she had a responsibility to - the whores and warriors of the Gilded Lily. Now because of the war with the Brotherhood and the following meteor strike, the numbers applying to the Gilded Lily had risen, so that it was likely those they had lost would be replenished in number ... but that did not heal Philomel's sorrow and anxiety. It did not resolve her stress.

Only a battle would do that.

She barely had to look at the hooded man to have him scurrying to prepare her a room. By now the faun was well known; if not before, it was now that she had been raised to the temporary honorary general for the defence of Radasanth that made her recognisable. She now seemed to have acquired a bodyguard too - a group of five battle-hardened women who spied out every corner who had not asked her but made themselves her defence. They called themselves the Gilded Quint. They knew they would only be able to watch the battle and not enter, yet still they accompanied her here as the door to the new ground began to reveal itself.

"Are you sure about this, my lady?" the archer of the group, Alois, asked. Her vivid red hair was caught up behind her with a black leather lace.

Philomel nodded, once. "I need this," she said, her face clearly lined with anxiety. "I need to ... relax."

Relaxing through fighting might have been alien and absurd to other ears, but the ladies of the Quint seemed to accept this. All but Alois, who pursed her lips and tapped a finger against her yew bow.

"But my lady -"

"No, Alois," Philomel said calmly. "No. I have had this argument with you, Delath and Veridian. I am sure. I want this alone, with nobody but me. You are not to intercede." She named her two usual companions, her beloved fox and her wingless dragon, who she had argued with for three hours that morning about her decision to come here. In normal circumstances they would fight with her, but today this was for her.

Her battle, in which she could fully let her stresses of the battle and the last few days out. Her battle, in which she could rise and use all of her abilities with no fear of permanently damaging her foe. Her battle, in which she was determined to rise victorious.

"My lady -"

"Damn open the door already!" Philomel yelled.

And the door opened. Quite suddenly. To reveal a wide green pasture, luscious and stretching as far as the eye could see. It was a spring meadow, with cows and sheep grazing far off into the distance, and daises idly growing by a lovely bubbling stream. All of this was set beneath a bright blue sky, and birds chattered and wheeled, calling for her to come in and join them in their peaceful merriment.

A perfectly blissful landscape to ruin with war.

The Matriarch grinned, savagely.

"Mine," she hissed, and with a singing of metal unhooked her mythril sword from her side. Then she turned away from her bodyguard to stalk, alone, into that place of death.