Magdala's eyes fluttered open, her vision blurring as she tried to make sense of the chaos surrounding her. The shattered remains of the carriage lay scattered around her, the splintered wood and torn fabric a stark contrast to the once luxurious interior. The steep mountainside loomed like a jagged maw, ready to swallow Magdala whole. Pain shot through her side, and she hissed as she tried to move, the coppery tang of blood coating her tongue. Her fingers were clenched around something cold and metallic. It took her a moment to realize it was the hilt her own dagger. Its impassive silence gave her comfort in the midst of the havoc and brought a flood of memories crashing back. The ambush. The screams. The sickening lurch as the carriage plummeted down the mountainside.

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  “Focus!” she commanded herself, her voice a brittle whisper in the desolate silence. “You are not so easily defeated.”

  With a grimace, she attempted to push herself up, only to cry out as white-hot agony lanced through her legs. She painstakingly pulled her torn skirts up, revealing mangled limbs twisted at unnatural angles, shattered bones pressing against skin.

  Magdala's breath hitched as she took in the grievous state of her legs. She gritted her teeth and tried to block out the pain. Her eyes darted around, searching for any sign of life or movement.

  (The rest of the chapter has been removed to prevent further copyright infringements.)