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OK, here's mine. It's rather long, because it was originally a school assignment. My words were surrey, motive, and drumbeat.
The Measure of a Life
Bodies cluttered the battlefield. Men and horses, fallen together. The creek cutting through the land flowed red. Smoke poured from a nearby village that had been set ablaze, choking the valley. The women’s keening cry of mourning floated across the fields. Up in the sky, vultures and other scavengers circled, waiting to descend on their prey. A ghostly figure stood on the hill, his horse by his side. In an accustomed motion, he swung himself up onto the saddle. He flicked the reigns, leaning over his horse’s neck as they galloped away through the smoke.
*
Prince Rezaen galloped into the castle courtyard, his horse flecked with sweat from the effort. He jumped off, landing lightly on the ground as he called for his carriage. Rushing past the bowing servants, he took the stairs to his chamber two at a time. He quickly tore off his sweaty, bloodstained uniform, wincing as his arms reached over his head. He looked down to see a deep gash running diagonally across his arm. A manservant approached from the shadows, but Rezaen waved him away as he attempted to bandage the wound himself. After a few failed tries, he gave in and nodded curtly at the manservant, impatiently waiting as his arm was bandaged. After quickly scrubbing his face, he pulled on his dress uniform. He glanced hastily in the mirror before running down the stairs, smoothing his hair as he went.
As he settled into his surrey, the honour guard came into formation around it. Farther back, the soldiers assembled, fresh from the battle and the captives were led into place behind them. Rezaen leaned out of the surrey, his brow furrowed.
“Where are the rest of the Lethalyan soldiers?” He pompously asked the closest guard. “Surely they know by this time that they are required to take part in my victory procession.”
“These are all that are left, my liege.” The guard replied.
All that are left?
Leaning back in the surrey, Rezaen gave the signal to drive, and it lurched into motion. Glancing back at the small, straggling company of soldiers, he felt a brief pang of regret, but promptly dismissed the thought. What were soldiers for, but to give their lives for their country? They had known the cost when they volunteered. And it was not in vain. The losses of the Espyans, their foes, had far eclipsed those of Rezaen’s own army. He had demonstrated again the superiority of his trained soldiers. They were just peons. Their loss was small compared to the country’s gain.
Rezaen shifted in his seat, waving lazily at the cheering crowds that had gathered to celebrate Lethalya’s victory.
*
Near the centre of the capital, Niries received the news of the Lethalyan victory with anger. He slammed his fist down on the nearest table, causing it to shudder under the impact. The Lethalyan, brutal killing-machines that they were, had yet again decimated his people. Worse yet, Taseldor had been razed.
Lynnae!
His sister had refused to come with him when he fled Espya to escape this endless war and destruction. She stayed behind in Taseldor, helping and encouraging those who had not fled. Niries remembered her sweet face framed with the light brown hair that was so much like their mother’s. Their mother, who had died in this same cursed war. And now Lynnae had no doubt died in the battle for Taseldor.
Niries fell to his knees, weeping. Would these beasts never cease hurting him? They had taken so much; all they had left to take was his life. Red flooded Niries’s sight as he saw the image of the prince’s victory procession against the backdrop of the gruesome picture of his people lying dead, his sister among them.
As he clenched his hand, imagining the prince’s neck inside, his arm brushed on the dagger sheathed in his belt. He pulled it out, running his finger along the sharp blade, delighting in the metal’s glint in the light. The way to stop this bloodshed was through the instigator.
As Niries pushed the dagger back inside his belt, he remembered his sister’s chiding voice.
“Consider your motive, Niries. Is it honourable? Think before you act. Even a good act is not good, unless the motive is pure.”
“My motive is pure, Lynnae,” Niries growled, mentally shoving her, and the thought of her displeasure, aside. “I will avenge our people! We will finally have justice against this murderer! The prince will pay.”
He tied his cloak on, pulling the hood far over his face. He swept out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
*
Itaine stood waiting for the victory procession, the glaring sun glinting on the tears that streamed silently down her cheeks. The soldiers had already brought the news she dreaded. Her laughing, fun-loving brother, who treated war as a game, was dead, killed by an Espyan archer’s arrow. A silent sob shook her body. She had tried to tell her girlfriends when they came to fetch her, but they had responded with little more than, “You poor dear,” and dragged her off anyway. She glanced at them as they laughed and chattered with girlish abandon. They didn’t understand. They never would.
She sighed, looking around at the people joyously waiting. To them, war was only a distant thing. They didn’t know the hurt it brought. One man in particular caught her eye. Despite the heat, he wore a full cloak with the hood pulled up. Unlike the people around him, he stood with his head bowed. Itaine decided that the war had taken someone from him too. Forgetting her own pain, Itaine’s heart throbbed with compassion and she began to go to comfort him when the sound of drumbeats and the trilling of fifes met her ears.
It wasn’t long before the procession turned the corner onto the thoroughfare on which Itaine stood. The prince sat back on the cushions, waving lazily at the assembled populace. The people began to crowd the carriage, throwing flowers and singing the Lethalyan anthem.
Out of the corner of her eye, Itaine saw the cloaked man purposefully threading his way towards the prince. As a gap in the crowd allowed her to see his whole body, she saw his hand move and something glint inside it. She gasped as she looked again.
“Stop him!” She cried, running into the crowd. “He means to assassinate the prince!”
Her voice did not reach the guards around the prince, but the crowd passed the message from person to person until it reached the carriage at the same time as the cloaked man.
The drumbeats quickened, calling out in warning. The soldiers’ hands grasped for the man as he leapt into the carriage, but missed.
A cry of pain and anger issued from the carriage.
The crowd gasped, believing their prince dead. A moment later, the cloaked man was thrown out of the carriage. His hood fell back as the guards turned him over.
“Espyan!” The people cried.
The guards roughly assisted the man to a standing position. As he stood, Itaine saw his own dagger protruding from his leg. The guards led him to join the other prisoners as Prince Rezaen appeared in the doorway of the carriage, beaming at his subjects. The people let out a cheer as the carriage lurched forward again, quickly rounding a corner and passing out of sight. Itaine turned away, her tears beginning again.
*
Silence fell over the valley as the last few wisps of smoke drifted from the burning village. The creek flowed clearer and clearer as the trickling water slowly carried away the stain of battle. Only the vultures remained, still flying in their endless circles. Silent witnesses.
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~Zoe M. Scrivener
After much thought and prayer, I am staying on Holy Worlds. I believe what we have here is worth fighting for. PM me for details.
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Maybe you could borrow one from the library. 
That is such a sad story.
