I remember the first time I saw her, truly saw her--raven locks billowing in the wind as she sat astride a horse she had stolen from a solider who lay dead at her feet. Her dark hazel eyes burned with a multitude of emotions--anger, pain, regret, devotion and revenge. Her slight build was encased in mere riding leathers, no protection from the arrows whistling in the air our way, but she stood fierce in defiance nonetheless. She was glorious, and terrifying all at once. When word reached our village that the young Queen had finally been freed from the cavernous prison the King had placed her in, we quickly grabbed whatever weapons we could and met her small traveling party on its way to the castle. She needed us. And we needed her. The chaos that had consumed our kingdom since she first appeared on our Lord's arm a decade ago had torn at the fragile edges of...