Jilana rushed to the balcony’s balustrade, leaving behind her comfortable, cushioned seats and fan-turning attendants to view the horrific events unfolding on the battlefield below more clearly. That was her family out there, facing terrible, shameful deaths—her grandchildren and her son by marriage. She loved them all dearly and could not endure the thought of losing them. But that was only part of her anguish. To lose them would be terrible enough; to lose them like this was unbearable. The great Krushan line could not end thus, driven down to its knees in the dust of a nameless field, overcome by treacherous allies and illegitimate tactics. This could not be the end of her beloved Sha’ant’s legacy. She would not allow it.
She was a breath away from rushing down from the pavilion and taking to a horse herself to join the battle. She would rather have died here today than stand by as her family line was destroyed. Though a fisherwoman born, Jilana was Krushan by marriage, and she would fight, even if only for a few desperate instants, rather than let this travesty stand.
But just when all seemed lost, something miraculous happened.