Vylona by Elizabeth Richards

She smelled like herbs and sunlight. Like failed attempts at gardening and healing salves.
She sounded like lullabies and the forest. Like warnings and black bears.
She looked like impulsive decisions and brash words. Like soft spoken, begrudging apologies and life-risking loyalty.
She felt like warm hugs and carefully bandaged wounds. Like anger veiled by intense love and no verbal filter.
She tasted like blackberries and fear. Like minty lemon and heartbreak.
That was before the war. Now...
She smells like iron and magic. Like a prayer on the tip of your tongue and a sweat-filled battlefield.
She sounds like war-torn villages and anger. Like burnt kingdoms and clashing swords.
She looks like medic tents and the sun. Like righteous fury and bright halos.
She feels like fire and white-hot love. Like self-sacrifice and deadly protection.
She tastes like peppers and fast-holding faith. Like communion wine and cinnamon mulled cider.