Nysta woke to the sound of thudding.

“Talek,” she groaned, clutching her head. “Shut the fuck up.”

Rolled onto her side, feeling several knife handles dig into her side. She'd gone to bed armed.

Remembered why.

“Ah, fuck.” Covered her eyes with one arm and realised the thudding was the restless goats stuttering back and forth on the porch.

Her brain felt thick and greasy with the leftovers of grief-induced nightmares still clinging to her brain like a gang of goblins. She could hardly remember them, but most involved watching Talek burn.

Watching his skin melt.

Feeling his eyes on her. Accusation burning with despair while he screamed and screamed.

The floor was cold, so she pulled her boots on quickly. Moved toward a small jug of cold water and splashed her face while looking out the misted window.

An icy white blanket covered the valley. It looked plush and soft, but the elf wasn't fooled into thinking it was pleasant.

It'd be cold. She was bound to hate it.

Hate it more now Talek's grave was hidden beneath the frozen sprawl as though his death hadn't happened.

She knew if she ever returned here, she'd have a hard time remembering where she'd buried him if it weren't for that stone. She wished she had time to make a marker.

But Talek's killers were moving further away. She couldn't allow them to escape.

The elf turned back to a small chest torn open by whoever had ransacked the room. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and she kicked through them to find a thicker undershirt which she swapped with the one she'd been wearing the past few days.

Caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and noted the ragged appearance of her hair.

The drawn look on her face.

The scar burning on her cheek with fierce heat. She rubbed at it and gave her reflection a tight scowl. “You look like shit,” she told it, running her fingers through her hair and scrubbing irritably at her scalp.

Checked her knives next, absently brushing her fingers across the butt of each handle as she worked to regain her patience.

Finally, drawing the blade still wrapped in oilskin, she placed it on the table beside the hook knife recovered from Talek's chest.

Stared at them both for a few moments.

Then slowly, almost nervously, she unwrapped her knife.

It was long and wide-bladed. A jagged spine with an evil curving belly that swept up to a vicious point. Of the two blades in front of her, hers was the more sickening to look at.

Sickening due to the enchantment which gave the knife a venomous green glow around the blade. The kind of glow which made most people feel uneasy just looking at it.

Talek had bought it for her. Had it made by the Royal Swordsmith, Arit Sugo. It was a work of art and function with the enchantment guaranteeing the blade would never break or need sharpening.

There were other effects, too, but Talek hadn’t been clear on what they were. Only that if she needed them, they’d trigger.

The cost of the knife had been high. Even now she was shocked at what he'd done to afford the blade. In part, it's why they'd had to retreat to the Deadlands to survive instead of heading north to the Fnordic lands beyond the Great Wall. With so little gold to their names, they'd had no choice.

He'd chosen to bury the box in the goat pen. For safety, he’d said. Who'd want to dig up goatshit?

She'd laid the knife beside it. “I don't need it anymore,” she'd told him. “It's not who I am now.”

He understood. Even seemed a little pleased.

Though he knew she needed the blade before, he'd secretly hoped that moving to such an isolated place might give them both a chance for the peace they'd lacked in Lostlight.

But Talek had never really recognised the merciless nature of the Deadlands.

Looking around at their meagre possessions tossed contemptuously across the floor, she realised peace was something she was never going to find.

She sheathed both blades, giving herself no more time to reflect on the past. Her belly bubbled in need of food, but she ignored it.

Her body was still throbbing with the lingering effects of alcohol and sorrow. She couldn't bring herself to eat. Felt it would only make her vomit if she did.

She hauled Talek's old cloak from under the bed and wrapped it around herself. The black wyrmskin was lined with wolf fur and would keep her warm enough. Its hood could be drawn up to keep the snow from melting into her hair and dripping down her head and neck.

Then, giving the interior one last look, she turned her back on it. Stepped out into the bitter morning air.

A goat made small noises as she emerged onto the porch and she nodded calmly in its direction. Figuring it didn’t matter anymore, she left the door open for them to use the cabin's interior.

Stepped off the porch and allowed her eyes the chance to drink in the view one last time.

It was beautiful here.

Empty and like a patchwork ocean of white and grey stretching toward the high ribbed walls of the valley.

Hard to believe that this was where the Godwars were fought. That Rule and Grim had personally wrestled here.

Or that armies had clashed with such fury that the bones of the fallen had fused with stone and everything as far as she could see had been scorched with magefire.

She shuddered at the thought of magefire. Wiped her eyes with the back of her forearm and turned south.

Squinted down the barely visible path. And started walking.

Snow crunched underfoot and the crisp air made her head feel lighter.

As she moved further from the house, there was something refreshing about the silence. As though the world was mourning the violent end of her husband.

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It felt right.

She glanced back only once, and this as she wondered what'd happened to the cat Talek had seemed fond of. She couldn't remember seeing it.

Could've been driven off, she thought. Ran away scared.

She didn't blame it.

Mist covered the northern end of the valley and it seemed to be crawling eastward. Thankful to not be walking into it, she aimed herself at the southern end.

Her ears felt numb, and she wondered if Fnords had the same problem in the cold with their short little ears.

Shivering, the elf’s hands burrowed further into her pockets and she muttered darkly as she walked.

The snow had hidden all traces of the men who'd killed Talek. But she'd chosen this valley for the very reason there were only two easy ways out. With Talek's firm belief someone would one day come looking for the box, she figured having somewhere they could see them coming would be a good thing.

Building the cabin had been a chore. Talek, unable to lift more than simple tools, could only offer verbal assistance and the process was slow. Painfully slow. Especially as she didn't have much talent for construction.

More than once she'd bitten back a curse at his inability to lift anything useful and now those moments of anger sparked fresh waves of grief as she realised she'd never see him again.

He was gone.

Meat and bones buried in a frozen hole in the ground.

She couldn't believe this was happening.

It was unreal. A dream, perhaps?

Maybe she'd wake in a minute. Find him beside her. Maybe if she concentrated real hard, she could open her eyes and everything would be fine. The nightmare would be over.

“Stupid,” she hissed at herself, shaking her head angrily.

Stomped faster down the winding path.

Not that she needed the path. Could have cut a straight line across the rippling landscape instead. She knew every inch of the valley. Had made it her first priority to scout the surrounds. Just in case.

In case of what?

She lifted her scarred face to the smooth clouds.

In case of something just like this.

At the far end, the path lifted into a gentle incline and thin clumps of twisted trees raked the sky. A spear of sunlight shafted into the ground and the elf eyed the crack in the sky as though wanting to break it.

The world, she thought bitterly, didn't deserve sunlight today.

The feeling of loss was something she’d felt in a long time. Not since she’d been shoved out onto the ruthless streets of Lostlight as a child.

In some ways she wondered if fate had played a hand. Given the number of lives she'd taken since then, it felt like some kind of cosmic balance had shifted against her again.

Grunting, she told herself she'd given up on a belief in fate years ago. When the Dark Lord Grim was eventually slain by Rule, elfs were left with no god to pray to.

At thought of the two gods, Nysta eyed the terrain more carefully. There were many trenches dug into the ground. And a few tunnels burrowed under light layers of rock and dirt. One wrong step and she could find herself trapped under collapsing earth.

Even though she figured she knew where most of the tunnels were, she could never be completely certain there weren’t more.

She could hear the gurgling creek off to her right and remembered Talek saying local legend was the creek had been formed not by water but by the blood of those who'd fallen.

Such was the toll.

Her eyes slid over the inhospitable landscape and she found it hard to disbelieve.

Further up the incline, the path seemed to press in on itself as rocky walls loomed and trees grew more common. Though they were diseased or inert for winter, they offered a fragile promise of life where the valley had offered only isolation and a sense of despair.

But, thought the elf miserably, the promise of life was an illusion.

Life didn't matter. It didn't last long enough to mean anything.

All that mattered was survival.

And revenge.

It took most of the morning to make it to the top of the valley. She was following the unkempt path toward Spikewrist when she felt her shoulders and back tighten.

The narrow path winding through the graveyard of trees made her feel like she was back in the tight alleys of Lostlight. It was why she usually headed to the more open northern side of the valley and the town of Highwall.

Her eyes skipped over the shadows, peeling them back to expose any sign of threat which might need to be countered. It was a habit she'd learnt quickly in the murderous alleys and one which had been further honed in the years of training afterward.

And, while those who knew her often remarked that she was paranoid to the point of madness, none would deny she was often the first to spot trouble and deal with it. Her paranoia had saved the lives of many in her former guild.

Fingering the long thin-bladed throwing knife called Entrance Exam at her hip, the elf narrowed her eyes to slits and considered leaving the path. Of sliding among the shadows between thick trees and ancient brush.

She stepped into a small clearing.

Scratched at her palm.

Paused.

Said; “Fuck!”

And leapt sideways as a ball of magefire as large as her torso erupted from the trees. It flashed past with a roar of heat and crackle of magic. Exploded as it splashed into another tree behind where she'd been standing. The boom of it echoed like thunder as splinters of flaming wood showered the clearing.

At the same time, she heard a cry of surprise and caught a glimpse of a human female in a black dress.

Snarling, Nysta rolled into a ditch out of view of her attacker. Paused long enough to figure the mage had no idea where she'd ended up.

Took a few sharp breaths.

Then carefully bellied along the ground, keeping her head aimed at the clearing as she tried to circle the human before the spellslinger could pinpoint her position.

Why the mage had tried to kill her, she didn't know. And neither did she care. Perhaps the mage had something to do with Talek's death. Perhaps not.

Either way, the elf thought as she drew Entrance Exam, she hated spellslingers of any kind. And their magefire.

An image of Talek's burning flesh pierced her mind and she set her jaw.

Killing this one was going to be a pleasure.

“Hey! Long-ear?” The voice surprised her because it wasn't a woman's voice. But a man's. She wondered for a second if there were two of them. Or more. It seemed unreasonable that up to a dozen men and horses were hiding in the trees, but maybe they were better than she allowed. “Long-ear! I didn't mean to cast that at you! I thought I was alone out here. Look, we can talk about this, right? Long-ear? Shit. I didn't kill you, did I?”

Nysta's lip curled crookedly toward the scar, making her grin seem more cruel. Keeping silent, she moved slowly around to where the voice had come from.

It wasn't easy with the brittle remnants of brush hidden under the snow, but she took her time. Padded carefully through the snow, inches at a time.

Her hands were numb with cold, but the elf kept tight control on her patience despite the ball of hate growing in her belly.

“Long-ear?” the voice sounded nervous. Frightened. Odd for a mage to be afraid, she thought. “We don't have to kill each other. It was an accident. I swear! I didn't even know you were there! Please, Long-ear!”

He soon realised he’d get no reply and she heard him moving about behind the trees. The spellslinger had a talent for finding every twig. And he couldn't step on them without letting out a frustrated curse.

Circling him proved an elementary task.

She found him easily and eyed his back, watching as he crouched behind a fallen tree.

He kept lifting his head to look across the clearing to where he imagined she was still hiding. Kept muttering to himself.

Opening his grimoire, looking for a spell to cast.

Closing it with a moan and then opening it again as if he couldn't decide what to do.

He was young. Barely out of his white apprentice tunic, she thought. Certainly a Fnord judging by both his skin, which wasn't as pale as the southern Caspiellans, and the dark purple runes shimmering down the side of his flamboyant robes. The runes were in a language created by Grim himself and no mage in service to Rule would profane himself with them.

She stifled a bark of laughter at his comical appearance. It was rare for mages to wear robes, and this was why she'd mistaken him for a female. He was obviously trying to look the part but managed only to look like a lunatic with a flair for the melodramatic.

Her eyes slitted as she studied his boots. She let out a soft grunt as she realised his soles weren’t what she was looking for.

His hair was black, matted with filth. He looked worse for wear, and she doubted he'd been at the farm when Talek was killed. She had no real proof of this other than his boots, so she allowed he could still be one of them.

Lifting his head too quickly, he bumped it against a knot in the trunk and spat a curse. Rubbed his head and sat down on his haunches in the snow, his shoulders slumped.

He looked like a child tired of playing a game he wasn't much good at playing. She felt her lip twitch again and fought to keep herself focussed.

“Long-ear!” he whined loudly. “Please listen to me. I wasn't aiming at you. I was just practicing. That's all. If you're trying to scare me, I tell you I'm pissing my fucking pants already. If you're trying to kill me, can you just get it the fuck over with? Please? This silence is killing me. Can you hear me? Come on. You're creeping me out enough already.”

She slid forward, her soft-soled boots making no sound as she flitted across the snow.

There was a knack to it. One she'd learnt quickly.

He didn't even hear her coming until she pressed her cheek against the back of his head and whipped Entrance Exam around to angle the sharp blade across his throat.

He froze.

“I hear you, fuckface,” she hissed. “Now, let me give you some sound advice. Don't move. Or everyone in the Deadlands will hear you scream.”

He shivered in her grip. “How'd you sneak up on me like that?”

“It's like you said,” she curled her lip. “I'm very ear-y.”