She was there, standing bathed in blood amidst the silenced battlefield. The youngest mortal that wished to be beheaded met the death itself before her along with the dragged scythe on its back just as exactly as the tale worded. It was the only atonement she could think of. Until the cloaked skeleton that serves death voiced the first words that entangled their fate together into a thousand lifetime, "The thousandth soul." Slow, low and languid it uttered. "A rickety child of battlefield in human morass. Let thee be the reaper of thy death." Just like that, the eight year old girl's fate has been sealed. ---
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