It wasn’t my fault, I swear.
I died because I didn’t know enough battlefield medicine. It turns out that you’re not supposed to push an arrow through yourself when it’s stuck in your chest.
It wasn’t really my fault: I’d never been lonely enough to put lots of time into mastering the basics of medical care, and I’d spent all my time focusing on intrigue, learning who’s who, and figuring out what plots I might have to worry about in the weeks before my coronation as Queen of Nova. After my disastrous showing at the grand ball, I’d tried to play catch-up with my long neglected social skills. Somehow I never got around to learning what to do about arrow wounds.
I just didn’t think they’d be an issue, you know? Or at least, not as big an issue as accidentally starting a rebellion by pissing off my nobles. I’d already had one of them assassinated, and had only succeeded because of all the time I’d put into mastering my network of agents. Next time, I’ll make a different mistake. I’m sure of it. Welcome to Long Live the Queen.