Casar watched as the two soldiers walked through the trees, away from her father’s grave.

Stepping carefully Casar moved alongside the rocks piled over her father’s body.

‘This was Bradley Gerod. The Bradley Gerod. Hater. Hunter.’

The older soldier, Maten, had known her father.

The younger man had stuck a wooden sword into the rocks over the grave.

The sword that killed my mother, all those years ago. The sword that tore apart the heart and mind of my father.

A wooden sword.

Cris.

The little boy playing with his friend.

Casar looked at the sword. She watched it grow large in her focus. The forest and surroundings faded and blurred into shadow.

She could burn it, bury it, could break it in pieces.

Instead Casar reached down and gently prised loose the wooden sword.

I will keep it close.