Angry black and red clouds that wept crimson tears of blood onto the red-stained sand parted to reveal a warm ray of light. Ben’s vision went white, and he felt his body begin to ache dully. He heard a mournful song, a muffled keening that wafted in from somewhere outside. He opened his eyes to find pitch-black darkness. He tried to move, yet his arms felt sluggish and numb. The dirge drew closer, and Ben felt the sweet, wailing words caress his form as if they were the gusts of a cold winter wind.

The haunting Sean-nós spoke of a child lost and a mother weeping, her days spent wandering aimlessly. The keening faded. Muffled by the distance of the passing mourner and the prickling of pins and needles prompted him to attempt movement once more. The warmth of his Keeper’s Aura radiated from above his form, and he smiled. Ben heard the sound of a familiar grunt next to him, and he turned, with a splash and a trickle of water, toward the noise.

“Ainsle?” he croaked with a parched throat.

“I bloody wish I wasn’t,” the old woman replied in a low husky rasp, and he exhaled in relief.

The young man’s attention was drawn to his immediate surroundings. He lifted a hand to feel the resistance of water against his skin before it broke the surface with a splash. He touched his forehead and felt lukewarm drops run down his face to settle in his beard. The thought of his last words to Ainsle in her domain struck him, and the memory of the Revenant Knight cleaving his legs from under him sent an eerie chill scuttling down his submerged spine. Disturbed by his movement, the water's surface lapped against his face as his general orientation became clear. He sat, reclined in some sort of tub, and the lack of feeling in his lower limbs suggested that his defeat by the monster hadn’t, in fact, been a bad dream.

Rapid thuds of footsteps on wood above his head drew his attention to a blinding line of light that bloomed in the ceiling. He instinctively closed his eyes and heard a feminine gasp, followed by hurried thuds descending what seemed like a staircase.

“You’re awake, my heart,” Ann’s soothing voice accompanied the brush of her breath against his ear.

He felt her soft hands cup his face before he spoke. “Annie, you’re okay. I’m glad,” he said in a weak raspy voice.

He felt her soft trembling lips touch his forehead, and her soft whimper hummed against his skin. Ben strained to lift his numbed arm from the tub to place a hand on her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Annie. For making you worry… and for not…” he croaked, which only caused her trembling to intensify.

She spoke softly, her tone betraying the myriad of emotions he felt through their bond. “I never doubted. Not even for a single moment. I knew you’d come back to me.”

“Sweetheart,” Ainsle rasped from beside the pair. “Would you be a dear and grab Ol’ Ain something to drink?”

Ann sniffed and released Ben’s cheeks. “Of course. Welcome back, Ain,” she said before a pause. “My darling, please don’t try to move until I return.”

“Okay,” Ben replied, unsure if he could manage more than flailing his arms about in the water.

The Keeper left up the narrow staircase and he slowly opened his eyes to see a dark basement illuminated by a pale light from the trap door in the Master Necromancer’s abode. He looked down to see that he was submerged in murky-white water, and he dared not reach down to touch the stumps of his legs; content to hover in denial for as long as he could.

To distract himself from his morbid thoughts, Ben scanned the dingy room and found the walls packed with overflowing bookshelves of dusty tomes and more scrolls than had been on the main floor of the dwelling. His gaze swept the room to his right, where a copper tub stood next to him, the twin to his own. Ainsle lay, as nude as he was, with her head reclined against the lip of the bath, almost as if she was enjoying a relaxing soak. Her hair was tied neatly in a high bun, and her eye patch was missing.

The young man was startled by the scene that lay beyond the Berserker. Several hooks attached to the low ceiling were embedded into the backs of corpses in varying states of decay. The bodies hung eerily still as if frozen in time. He didn’t smell the decaying flesh at all; instead, the scent of old paper was the dominant odor in the dark room.

“Oi,” Ainsle said, and Ben’s attention returned to the old woman. “Best not to tell Sunshine about what we talked about yet. The whole sharing space in our dreams and all.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Not until we figure out what in the actual fuck those cunts did to her.”

Ben frowned as he considered the intent behind his mentor's words. He recalled her mentioning that she was born of the Northern Tribes and that some of their people, which she had expressed dissension toward, glorified the actions of the Speakers. He believed that she wouldn’t resort to deception, even if by omission, unless she thought the contrary would cause harm to the Keeper.

“Okay. I’ll trust your judgment on this, but I don’t like keeping her in the dark.”

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Ainsle sighed. “She won’t accept that she can’t do it like us. Shit, she’ll probably blame herself for it…” The old woman paused, and her eyelid opened to reveal an empty crevice. “Unless… we force our way in.”

The light thuds of approaching footsteps quelled any further discussion on the matter. Ben turned his head to see the blonde-haired woman descend the creaking stairway, towels of linen draped over one arm and a smooth clay jug in the other. She walked over to a table above his head and poured two cups of water before handing one to Ben and Ainsle, who hummed in thanks.

“Thanks, Annie,” Ben said as he sipped the offered clay cup. He looked at the short, blond woman and saw dark rings under her bloodshot eyes. “What happened? How long were we out for?” he asked, and his Keeper’s smile waned a touch.

“It has been a week. The Dark ones were exterminated, largely thanks to you and the Red Maiden.” Ann smiled, and Ben frowned. “As I was told by the War Clerics of Iorilai, the Necromancer’s Apprentice bound the remaining Revenant as they performed a Master-level ritual to slay it. The Cleric, Yolanda, has come every day this week to ask about your health and well-being. Yours too,” Ann said to Ainsle before her tired eyes framed by slanted brows met Ben’s. “I should’ve come with you… I’m sorry, my heart. I made a grave error; I won’t do it again.”

Ben shook his head and raised a numbed hand. “No, no. You couldn’t have known, and I… wasn’t strong enough.”

Ben tried to recall the evening's events as his gaze dipped to the hazy water of the bathtub. The memories between meeting the twins and finding Ainsle in front of the orphanage were similarly murky. Images of a trance-like slaughter brushed his mind, and he saw legions of undead and terrible creatures fall to the exquisite crescent blade and spearhead of his halberd.

I must’ve been lost in the fighting… I remember it felt… good. I was free. But now, I’m just a cripple? Is that why the Cleric kept coming back?

“How many did they say I killed?” he asked as he turned to face Ann.

“I’m afraid I didn’t ask, my heart,” Ann replied dejectedly, almost ashamed that she couldn’t satisfy his question.

“It’s okay. I don’t care about that. And if I’m honest with you… I don’t care about being a hero to these people. I… I wish I was a bit… more. Ainsle wouldn’t have been hurt, and I’d still be able to walk.”

Ann smiled hesitantly, and she opened her mouth to speak. Ben’s head tilted at the gesture.

“Yeah,” the Berserker interjected. “Was deep in the drinks when those buggers showed up. Nobody was prepared for that… Say, did the little ones make it out safe?”

Ann nodded. “Not a single Dark one so much as touched the door of the orphanage.”

The old Berserker sighed in relief, yet Ben’s gut twisted with guilt. Ainsle had theorized that the cause of the attack could’ve been a result of their over-the-top sparring that morning. He frowned at the thought and recalled a detail from their escapades in the rain.

“Hey, Ainsle,” he turned to address the Berserker. “We walked quite a fair distance away that morning. You sure we attracted them?”

The old woman shrugged. “I’ll be buggered if I know. Maybe the weight of three Champions called the bastards here, but then again, nobody really knows 'cause these bands of nasties are a new thing around these parts.” The Berserker stood, and murky-white water cascaded down her slender frame. “Fuck me. What did you little shits put in this water? I feel bloody great!” the old woman exclaimed.

Ben frowned, undisturbed by her nudity, and looked at his numb hands. “The feeling isn’t mutual,” he muttered.

Ann cleared her throat. “My darling, as I said, please don’t move. We’ve been administering a numbing draught to you for the past few days. It’d be best to wait for the Apprentice to return. He can… explain your circumstances better than I am able to,” Ann spoke with a tone that hinted at a plea.

Is that why she didn’t say anything? Really… I don’t want to hope. But if it’s true?

“If you say it’s best to wait, then I’ll wait,” he considered the woman for a heartbeat. A fragmented memory of slender hands in skin-tight blue gloves, inspecting a limb with a line of scar tissue, echoed in his mind. “Has it got to do with my legs?” he asked, tone raised with a hint of hope.

The tired blonde woman chewed her dainty lip before speaking. “There is an advanced form of Healing magic, the forte of Grand Master Healers, that is described as being able to reattach severed limbs… Provided that the spell is cast within a short time after the injury…”

“Was I out there for too long then?” he asked with a sigh, tone resigned.

“No, you were delivered here swiftly by the Apprentice’s thralls. However, there is no such Grand Master in the city,” Ann said with a tone that sounded oddly worried to Ben, as if she feared reprisal for an error she had made.

“It’s okay, Annie,” he said, forcing calm into his voice before adding: “Whatever it is, I’m sure you made the right choice.”

His Keeper’s tensed shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly at his words. She dipped her head in a bow. “I’ll wake Kieran,” she said before handing a linen towel to the old woman and gesturing to clean folded clothes on a chair nearby.

“Thanks, sugar.” Ainsle winked as the Keeper left the basement once more. She let out a low whistle as she regarded the hanging corpses before shrugging and drying herself.

Ben watched as the old woman, brimming with energy, got dressed into a comfortable-looking white shirt and black trousers. His mind was swimming between the events in the market street, their domains, and the revelations of the recollection spell the Archmage had cast. He realized that Ainsle hadn’t learned of Eric and Jor’s betrayal and the existence of the Herald’s journal.

“Hey,” he called, receiving a hum in response. “So, about that night, we learned a few things about our old companion and her cousin.”

Ainsle paused with a raised brow, and the young man recounted the events of the evening. The Berserker remained quiet as she sat on the chair, only nodding or grunting in affirmation.

“The poor girl,” Ainsle began, yet Ben struggled to find sympathy for the raven-haired Archer. “Well, let’s see how things are going in the city. Might be Ol’ Ain is gonna make a trip down to the Capital, so I can have some bloody polite words with the bastard. Maybe find out about the girl’s diary too.” She paused and regarded the young man intently. “You wanna kill her, don’t you?”

Ben frowned and considered the question. “At first, after her betrayal at the embassy, I wanted to… strangle her. Feel her life slip away slowly through my fingers. But, after we met again at Kieran’s townhouse, she felt… strange. Like she had lost her mind, and I wasn’t so sure anymore. She said that Eric threw her away, like an old tool that wasn’t useful anymore.” He met the old woman’s gaze, and a rumble pervaded his being. “But, now I’m certain-”

The intangible weight of an Oath settled on his shoulders, and the claws of the beast began to dig deeply into his chest.

“-Eric and Jor Vasylius need to die.”