Hers to weigh, hers to dispose.

One: a dispute over land, which she holds (as she holds all things) in trust for her people.
Who has precedence? Horsers or farmers? Right of movement, right of establishment? “Let the land be held in common,” Rosalind decrees. “No fences built, no roads laid; let a fee of such and such be charged per head.” Both sides leave dissatisfied — such is power.

Two: Murder most foul.
Two women met in the night, witchlit by stars, and only one came home again. “You are bloody,” Rosalind rules, “stained and cauled in sin. Such debts can never be repaid, only directed. Let her be taken into the army, to kill and die blood-heavy in the service of the state.” A protest — what of her family? “They will be cared for; let them live, joined in grief, with hers whom you have slain.” Exit, weeping — such is power.

Three: Arms and armor, sold to Pinene across the sea.
“Be cast out, you drunkard,” Rosalind rages. “Find harbor there, among those who hate you. Be spit upon, be beaten. Pinene will be a fire, and Albion a flame; you shall be stubble, and they will set you on fire and destroy you. Let only the owls cry your name.” Defiant still, and broken — such is power.