In the dark silence hours before dawn, gentle barbs prickled against Nerys’ awareness. She roused with a moan, fighting the last of her magic as it urged her back to consciousness with quiet desperation. There was a heavy, exhausted haze dulling her senses, and she wanted so badly to sleep. But the tic in her mind refused to let her rest, and at last, she gave in to it. Her eyelids fluttered open.

Around her, the darkness was thick; the crystal torches dimmed out long ago.

She was utterly alone. And she hurt.

With a groan, she dropped one shoulder and rolled stiffly onto her side. She eased her legs over until they slid off the edge of the altar. Gritting her teeth, she used the momentum of their drop to hoist herself into a sitting position. She cried out as she did so, teetering on the edge of overbalancing, but she made it. Mostly upright, she sagged in place, nursing the stabbing pain that seared in needled waves across her chest. She could feel the crystal blade grate against her sternum with every breath she took, and each abrasion seemed to shear away a little more of her will to live.

She drew a long, slow, careful breath, filling her lungs despite the agony.

Biting at her lip to keep from crying out again, she found the edge of the stone shelf with her fingertips. Bracing, she pushed away from it. The effort it took was disproportionate, but she managed to lever her body off. Landing unsteadily on her feet, she clutched white-knuckled at the altar behind her. Shaking hard, she paused to catch her breath, and squinted through the darkness.

Across the room loomed an aperture, less solid blackness than the space around it. In fits and starts, she manoeuvred herself across the empty floor towards the doorway. She took her time – she had no fear of Fayne, or Galva, returning. There was no reason for them to do so; both knew that she would play out her purpose and expire in no more than a couple of days, at most. She kept her breathing shallow, forced herself in halting steps across the length of the dark room. At last, she reached the doorway – more by instinct than physical sensation – and paused again to rest. Hanging onto the doorframe, she clenched her jaw as her bucking heart hammered its protest against her ribs. The pain was making her dizzy, but, merciful as it might be, she couldn’t bring herself to simply lie down and die.

Holding out one shaking hand, she called to her magic. Lethargic, broken, the barest remnant answered its mistress – a weak, tiny flame sputtered to life above her palm. It wasn’t much, but in the sheer darkness, its feeble light was enough. Heartened, Nerys continued her slow, painful exit from the palace catacombs.

Finally, she left behind the maze of Vaults that ran for leagues under the palace. She stepped clear of a little-used back entrance, and the night sighed soft around her. She rejoiced in the mild sensation of natural elements in the outside world; her magic might elude her, but the simple freshness of the air gave her heart.

She had no idea where to go, or what to do. All she knew was that she had to do something – or count herself amongst the myriad minions of Death. She staggered away, her strength deteriorating even as she pushed herself onward through the darkness. She had no plan but to keep herself moving, trusting to blind faith for her deliverance. She’d nought else to call upon – with Fayne against her, she had no friends in the world, and no one to turn to.

Every other sentient creature either feared her or hated her.

She’d never cared for her unpopularity – and she hitched a short, grim laugh – but now it would be nice to have a friend. She let her hand hover above the crystalline curse embedded in her chest, not quite daring to touch it. Bowing her head and shedding a shameful tear, she admitted to herself that she was afraid.

Yet she gathered her courage, knowing that to stand still was to despair. She followed the rough path beneath her feet, away from Eoscan proper, out into the caldera that surrounded the capital city of Andoherra. Her journey seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Her conscious thoughts abandoned her, and she shuffled forth one tired step at a time.

Eventually, a brightening light caught her attention. She stopped, blinking to adjust her vision.

Tucked into the treed skirts of a copse ahead, there stood a roadside inn. She frowned, trying to make out the shadowed signage as it creaked in the breeze. The board swung forward, into the light of the listing lantern; the peeling paint picture was of an absurdly busty woman, who held a mug of ale in one hand and a fireball in the other.

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Nerys shut her eyes for a moment, wrinkling her nose. She knew this inn. It was one of her old hunting grounds, where she’d often picked up thieves and petty criminals who’d displeased the Queen. The Witch’s Tits, it was called, and it was about as savoury as its name. It was the kind of establishment not permitted within the city confines – a tavern with a questionable brothel upstairs. Worse, it specialised in catering for the lowest ranks of human men.

The door opened, belching out a swaying giant of a man, who staggered forth atop a tide of bawdy singing. Nerys froze, watching in disgust as he relieved himself where he stood – right in the doorway. He hiccoughed and sang a muddled verse of an unintelligible song as he did so, and then wiped his hand on his grubby pants. He half-turned to go back in, but stopped as he caught sight of her. He blinked, staring for a suspended moment. Realising she was real, and not a figment of his drunken imagination, he pursued his lips and cat-called at her.

Nerys’ fingers twitched.

He stumbled a few steps in her direction and she called urgently to her magic, willing it to rise to her defence. It tried to answer her, sputtering at her fingertips. The man paused, his face draining of its rosy glow as his foggy gaze drew down to her sparking hand. But the attempted flame fizzled out and, try as she might, she could not reignite it. The drunkard returned his gaze to her face and his fearful expression disappeared. He focused with frightening clarity as adrenalin banished alcohol.

“Ayu,” he growled, cracking his filthy knuckles, “Ah knows ye… Ye be that damned bitch from up yonder o’ t’castle! Sumfink wrong wi’ your witchy business, luv?”

He shook his head to clear the last of the drunken stupor hanging about his ears, and regarded her with a wolfish grin.

“Narry a care, luv,” he simpered, all grease and mocking charm, “Me ‘n t’lads’ll take great care o’ ye!”

His stance shifted to menacing, and he resumed his approach. Weak, desperate, Nerys called to her magic – again, again. Sparks fizzed and died at her fingertips as she backed away, but she couldn’t hold it, couldn’t reach it. Before she knew what had happened, he snatched a fistful of her hair, and – with ‘nary a care’ for her impaled heart – slung her roughly up and over his bull-broad shoulder.

Blinded by the jolt of pain that seared through her from the shard in her chest, she could do nothing more than gasp for air, but she fought to stay conscious, to have a hope of defending herself. He carried her back and kicked the door open, causing the room to start in drunken surprise. All heads turned in his direction, and he flashed an uneven, toothy smile.

“Ayu, lads!” he crowed. He dropped his prize with a thump to the flagstones and held his arms out in a sweeping gesture of triumph. “See here wha’ mefound!”

The room fell quiet. The patrons stared at the gagging, coughing brunette as she curled into a ball around her crippling pain. Her breath sobbed in fits and starts, but she tried to force herself to rise. As she lifted her head clear of the floor, the crowd gasped in terror and recoiled.

“Reyo!” a booming voice cried out in alarm, “Ye fecken mad, lad? That be t’fecken Lat’Nemele!”

Unperturbed, Reyo turned magnanimously to the speaker – a second bear-like man who was the spitting dirty image of him.

“Ah know!” Reyo purred at his twin, offering an exaggerated wink. “P’raps we share, Jago?”

Nerys almost made it to her knees, but Reyo kicked out at her with one giant, booted foot. He laughed as she collapsed under the blow, hissing in agony. She sparked and sputtered faintly, and Jago grinned, showing yellow, broken teeth.

“Her magik’s broked!” Reyo explained with vicious amusement. He snatched her up again to make his point, held her dangling by her hair. She fell limp, hurting too much to fight him, and he shook her like a doll. “See, lads? Free fer all, aye!”

“Ayu, lad!” Jago chuckled, wiping his nose on one meaty forearm, “Ain’ ye a good sort?”

He clapped Reyo on the shoulder, reached out to grab Nerys roughly by her dainty chin. He tilted her pale face up to the dingy lighting, and her delicate features stood out in stark contrast to his thick fingers. “Pre’y sort, ent she? Ye Mav, she sure show ‘er teeth t’us afore!” He leaned close, his breath reeking of stale ale, and smiled a crooked smile. “Luck! Now she jus’ a bitch who los’ her bite!”

Summoning the very last dregs of her strength, Nerys spat at him. Jago laughed raucously and hit her with the back of his hand, splitting open her lip. His brother laughed, too, and trapped her wrists in one giant fist. He held her slender frame aloft, and Jago twined his thick fingers through the lace front of her fragile dress. With a nasty smile, he tore it open.

Helpless, Nerys turned her head aside and squeezed her eyes shut, willing her mind away. Somewhere deep in her psyche, a golden figure swam into view. She clutched at it, fighting for focus, pinning the unexpected picture of her fellow Lat’Nemele in her mind. She saw the blonde in all her glory, fierce and furious and raining down wrath, and her heart cried out for her. She tucked her thoughts safely into Calyx’s tender hands, abandoning her terror into her charge.

A wild thrum of magic escaped her, but someone lashed out with a furious cry. The desperate ripple of power raced away, fading fast, as the blow sent Nerys reeling. The room swam around her, distorted and darkening. Sobbing, she clung to the image of Calyx as her senses shut down, abandoning her body, blanking out her fate.

In her oblivion, she didn’t notice the flash of gold.