This was a long dream.
A dream that Lorgar knew she was in.
The moment the Four-winged Eagle landed on her, the pain of the broken bones in her legs coursed through her veins. Her legs were, in her view, as crushed as the wheat under the millstone, in which she had seen her clansmen process food purchased from the north in spite of her lack of knowledge of how to grow wheat.
There was no way for her to stand up again for the rest of her life, not to mention fight.
But now she was standing.
Thus, it had to be a dream.
For only in a dream, what was made could be unmade.
