Coppice of demise.

A stitch of pain streaked down her curve.
A groan failed to escape her dead lips.
She had stepped into the coppice of demise;
that of truth, that if pain,
that not of love
but, more so of loss and  of game.

The dice showed a seven.

A miracle of times unknown.
A clandestine sword hung down her throat.
The nexus held by the last bit.
The snap but a twinkling away.
Light years were then a myth.