Wyndree stood above the monster’s corpse, her father’s sword still buried in its chest. The villagers began to reappear in their doorways and windows; she straightened her frame and attempted to look as if victory had been the outcome she had expected when she decided to face the creature rather than run and hide like everyone else.
It had been easier than expected: the monster was a dumb, slow creature, all brute force and no sense. There would be more of them, in the hills.
Wyndree had always imagined she would grow up to be a weaver, like her mother.
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