I fished out the half-drunk wine bottle from my satchel and finished it, then crushed it to shards in my hands. The splinters of glass weren’t sturdy enough to pierce my toughened skin, and as I rubbed my palms together they turned to dust.

No point throwing the bottle, or letting it fall. That could kill someone.

I flew high above the city, and it was as though I were doing it for the first time. Not that I felt giddy, beyond the alcohol’s effects, or that I forgot how to fly – but, looking down, I had that sensation I’d felt the night Dustbringer came for me. The exhilaration, like this was new to me. Gazing down on street after street of tiny little people, going about their Yearsend business, and in certain spots helping to clear the post-Incursion rubble. I didn’t descend to help – I just observed. After hiding Theor’s body and haltingly glyphing a message to Sol, I remembered to contact Zakimel about Ilitar and the others Aramas had taken for his slaves… Thankfully he didn’t answer either, and I spoke into the telepathic space, wondering whether he’d even listen to it, now he was under the impression my words might contain Heresy…

Afterwards I’d joined with the vampire, utilising his essence to peer through the darkness; coursing the clouds, I could pick out every detail, every facet of the scenes below me. Utilising his coldness, to separate myself.

Ordinarily it would be a shame that this eldritch stole away so much of my empathy. It would’ve been the perfect tool for a champion, if it allowed them to actually do their job. I could see now why apparently none of my peers had elected to join with a vampire. Still, for what I wanted tonight, he was useful. Most all I needed to hide. Up here, the wraith turned up to full, I was practically non-existent.

I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly, but in the moment it felt as though, if I could just not exist, everyone would be better off for it. If ‘Fintwyna’ had killed me in Firenight Square… none of this would’ve happened. Wyre would’ve never kidnapped the twins. Aramas would’ve never come after my family.

And Em might’ve died, in the Incursion, without the potion I made her take…

Thinking of Em was difficult.

“Hey!” I cry indignantly. “I’m the good guy here.”

“I vos called to fight a demon-summoner,” comes the foreign-accented voice of a girl or young woman from above me. “And look vhat I have found.”

There was so much – so much had happened in the past few months…

“I vill be happy to meet with you at noon tomorrow at ze bank in Blackbranch Square… And yes, you may call me Em.” This last she says quietly, looking down and not meeting my eyes. Her smile is fragile, shy.

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We’d both changed, for better and for worse in different ways. I remembered how she’d defended me. How quickly we’d become besotted with one another.

Em glances at me again as I struggle.

She looks back at our opponents, and flexes her fingers.

The frostbolt and fireball swell once more, resuming their former diameter and brightness.

“I shall take him to Henthae myself,” she says. “Release him now, Dustbringer, or you vill face me in combat, and I shall not hold back.”

That night, with Dustbringer’s spectres… Would it be like that, if they came for me? Would they send a champion? Would I have to fight Netherhame? Would they send Em?

I almost wished they would. I could imagine it – not fighting her, but confronting her. The bitter accusations and retorts flashed through my head, tangled like the intestines of some submerged creature, only half making sense at best: in my mind I always won, capable of effortlessly changing the context of the argument as soon as I needed to.

“You killed Nighteye!”

“I’m your girlfriend! You’ve known me longer! I should be more important!”

“It’s not a contest! You know you can never come first for me, Em.”

“Your brother and sister! You aren’t zeir dad you know, Kas. You have to live your own life.”

“How dare you! Nighteye knew it. I’m all they’ve got! ‘Live my life’! Till someone like you comes and kills me… You killed him, and he wasn’t trying to kill you!”

“He would’ve killed ozzers.”

“No he wouldn’t! But we didn’t even give him a chance! You! You didn’t give him a chance!”

“He voz a heretic! Zat’s how zis works!”

“No, that’s how you work. How didn’t I see you for what you are till now? Except that’s the worst thing: I did, and I didn’t even care… how sick is that of me…”

We could get through this, couldn’t we? Go back to normal, pretend nothing had happened?

No. If there was a way out, it was through. We had to face this misunderstanding head-on. I had to hear her explanation. We had to finally have the discussion I’d been putting off since forever.

It had to have been a few hours since the Bells stopped ringing by now. Long enough for her to have made her report. Long enough for her to have gone home.

I wheeled about, heading towards Rivertown. Oldtown’s ancient cobbles disappeared behind me, rolling up above me as I sank, descending into the lower districts. Within minutes I was crossing over the Greyspan; reconstruction crews were already there, and the magisters were allowing a limited flow of civilians to make their way over the river.

When I reached Em’s, I came to hover in the street in front of her window.

“Emrelet!” I shouted.

Nothing.

“Emrelet!”

I used an illusory sound-effect, bringing my voice through the glass and letting it emanate within her bedroom.

Vampiric senses informed me that someone was opening the front door, so I backed away and sank down some more so that I had just a few feet of empty air below me.

The door swung open and Linn stood there, Atar framed in candlelight just behind him, both of them in their bedclothes.

“Mr. and Mrs. Reyd, I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour…” I supposed it had to be around midnight now. “It’s just, we had this argu-“

“Feychilde.” Linn’s voice was cold. “You shouldn’t be here. Not now. Not ever. Zis conversation is over.”

* * *