Tired, beaten down, the hero raises her sword once more. She has not been defeated. She is not done.

Blood is crusted on her clothes. Nobody could know how much of it is her own, though. There’s too much for it to all be hers; she can feel weakness in her limbs, but not that much. Her breathing is fast, but deep. Her eyes still hold their focus.

Her cloak was hand-spun, well tailored. A hundred hours of labor. Little is left but shreds. If not for the heat of battle she would be freezing, the rest of her clothing in no better shape.

There is no-one else who stands to fight the beast before her. Its head a dozen feet in the air and a frame to match, most brave enough have died. Except her.

This isn’t the only beast she will have defeated tonight. A dozen corpses lie in her wake. Created doomed, all of them. Just like her.

Whatever pity she feels, it doesn’t matter. A step forward, the monster swings at her with a giant paw. Her sword sweeps and the paw continues a trajectory without resistance that one would expect were it connected to the rest of the limb. It has too many limbs, anyways.

Her advance continues. Two more steps, two more cuts, but she miscalculates. Her second cut is a moment late. A massive claw draws a cut across the side of her face.

She screams. She is more resilient than any natural human would have a right to be, but it’s a wonder she isn’t dead. Anyone would scream, in her place. Her left eye is gone, or close to it, as is a large section of surrounding tissue.

The hesitation is more than she should afford. Her blade can cut through anything. That won’t redirect mass.

The monster is off balance from the loss of its limbs. It falls, bleeding profusely, directly on top of her. It will not survive this.

Neither will she. Ten thousand pounds of flesh and a wound enough to kill an ordinary woman cannot be escaped.

Did she save them?

Was it worth it?

Could she have done better?