Swallowing hard, her hands lapsed the handle. The glistening silver showed herself, the red tinge to her hair; the sweat beads on her forehead; the old, metali gaze she held.
In front of her, a boy staggered bakwards until he fell over. His dark locks falling on his forehead as he rash landed on the blood stained earth.
"P-Please," He begged, crawling away as best he could. "You don't-don't hae to do this!"
"I wish that were true," She replied in a monotone voice. "But it's tradition."
"Tradition is just-just peer pressure from-from dead people!"
"Do you really think you're in a position to mock me and my people?" She sneered, before slashing his throat. Blood squirting out of his neck. She looked over the chaos, reminding herself of all that their people had done to her. "Us or them," She muttered. "There is no inbetween."