The girl was a thief. Many had suspected, which is as good as knowing when spoken with authority. She had stolen many things in public, but always these had been ethereal. She had stolen glances, looks even, stolen hearts on several occasions, and captured imaginations in scores. But here she lay now, bleeding all over the court of the righteous king like a commoner, kneeling on the frigid stone and trying uselessly to hold both the jewels and her intestines and struggling to balance their priority.
The king stood over his petulant daughter with divine anger burning him from within. His servant brought his hammer, forged by the king himself—it is well known—in the fires beneath the mountain that held their enslaved God, engine of the world and endless well of power.
She scooped the jewels around her as she feebly scooted away, leaving a brushed trail of blood with her cloak.
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