Rose

You ride at the front, your cloak heavy with dust and power. The king demands coin for his wars, and the weight of that demand has fallen upon your county like winter frost. You’ve raised the taxes once. Now, you must raise them again and you come to tell them it will be more. Whispers of unrest have grown into riots. You crushed a few. Executions. Quick, public, necessary. As you enter the village, a stone flies. Fast and close. It misses your face by inches. Your soldiers seize the thrower: a young, slight peasant. She glares at you, her hands and lips trembling. “You killed my father,” she says. You don’t remember her. But you remember giving the order. Your advisor steps beside you, hand on your shoulder: “She must be punished. She must be made an example, my lord,” he whispers. “If not, they’ll rise.” The villagers watch in silence. All of them waiting silently for your judgement.