Covered in cuts and missing an eye, Dawn stands gasping for air and clinging to the blood-soaked satchel. Her shoulders are numb from wielding the heavy weapon and she swears that at least one tendon has snapped. Turning in a circle, she gazes at the sea of ravens that is already sinking into the sand. Most of the birds are dead, but the exhausted woman can still see a few twitching wings. She considers going to put them out of their misery until her knees buckle and she drops the satchel. With a loud sucking noise, the desert devours the bag and releases a tiny belch at Dawn’s feet. Staring at the shifting earth, she gives in to her fatigue and flops onto her back. The feeling of bloody sand sticking to her matted hair is enough to make her sit up and scratch at her scalp. She stops when she pulls away a piece of skin that one of the ravens had nearly torn off at some point during the hours of battle. Seeing the tattered scrap between her bruised and callused fingers, she closes her remaining eye and waits to see if sleep or death will save her from reality.