The elf called Nysta staggered unsteadily down the narrow rocky path leading into the valley. Clumps of snow littered the ground and she spat at a few of them as she passed. “Fucking cold,” she muttered darkly, shoving her hands deeper into her jacket pockets.

She was small for an elf, though tightly muscled. Black hair, once neatly plaited into thick black locks, was knotted with neglect. Woven into the frayed locks were small strips of cloth from many different sources, giving her a ragged appearance.

When she reluctantly pulled her hand from the warmth of her pocket to push stray hair from her face, she revealed features not quite ugly, but certainly not pretty.

Mostly due to the angry red scar cutting into her cheek.

The brutal scar began at the corner of her mouth and ripped upward before jagging out towards her ear from a point just below her eye. It was this scar which injected an element of latent cruelty into her rare smile.

The elf’s clothing belonged to a dark alley more than the sweeping ruined landscape of the Deadlands.

Black wyrmskin pants and matching jacket in a style that might've once been well-maintained light armor. Now, heavily patched with varying shades of wyrmskin crudely sewn over many rips and holes, it promised little in the way of protection.

Her dark undershirt was disheveled and stained with beer, spots of vomit, and what could've been some kind of gravy.

Or blood.

She couldn't remember.

Her head beat to a painful rhythm dictated by the headache which had trailed her from Highwall. Sometimes she thought about pulling a knife and shoving it deep into her forehead in an attempt to dig the offending ache out of her head like a tumor.

The only problem she had with this idea was she couldn't choose which knife to use.

Sheaths and pockets covered her battered uniform with surprising excess. Nestled inside most sheaths were an impressive selection of blades which, though they may have appeared decorative, were chosen with function rather than fashion in mind.

Each blade was known to her by the feel of its handle, and each had a name because she believed names gave them purpose.

Names gave them life.

Life they often stole.

The elf grimaced into the fading light. Heavy clouds dulled the sun’s sharpness, but enough glare punched through to irritate her hungover mind. She knew that, far across the valley, Talek would no doubt be waiting on the porch.

Probably asleep again.

When she arrived, she'd find him half-frozen and, despite saving him from frostbite or death, he'd figure he was the one saving her. And he'd give her another talk about her drinking. About spending day after day pressed against the bar, feeding on guilt as much as beer.

She knew he figured she was repulsed by his scars. That she was unable to love him now the burns had eaten half his body.

But that wasn't even close to the truth.

Truth was that she loved him so much the pain she felt in her chest with each step closer to him burned almost as hot as the magefire which had melted his flesh. And it was this love which filled her with guilt.

Because every agony he felt was her fault.

Everything was her fault.

She jerked a hand from her jacket and rubbed at the puckered scar on her cheek.

Grunted heavily. It was a useless train of thought, and she knew it. But it was one which ran in circles around her head like a dog hungry for its tail.

Maybe today, she thought, it’d stop.

Maybe he'd say something.

Do something to melt the ice surrounding her heart. Ice which had grown thick enough to stop her heart from breaking.

Clumps of mummified trees gathered around the trail in secretive groups which made her think they were watching her. Talking about her in breezy whispers.

A year ago, she’d have spat at them, driving the ghost of her fear away. But today she endured the creeping sensation rolling down her spine as price for her wandering.

She paused at the edge of a small stream which cut across the path to splash her face with a handful of icy water. Its bite chilled her skin and made her violet eyes glitter brightly.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her fist, she turned toward the cabin which haunted the horizon.

Something about it was wrong, but she couldn't quite place it.

Her brain was still too fuzzy.

Whatever it was, she figured the last few shards of light dazzling her sight would soon fade and she'd be able to make out whatever it was that was nudging her mind.

Rubbing again at the scar, the elf used an old decaying bridge to cross the little stream. As she walked, her mind flushed with the remnants of drink and thoughts of the inevitable disappointment in Talek’s gaze.

She'd left home before first light the day before, crawling out of their shared bed.

Had looked back at his shape and listened to him moan softly in his sleep as pain followed him even into his dreams. He slept like a wounded animal. Unable to take the sound any longer, she’d stumbled out the door and into the freezing morning.

Tears clawed loose from her eyes and scratched down her cheeks like acid.

Before she’d risen, snow had fallen like a glittering white rash over the valley. The sight of it had been the trigger which left her reeling down the path away from home. A final straw, perhaps, which prompted another pointless attempt to flee her troubles.

Lifting her head, she could smell more snow on its way. There was a heaviness to the air that spoke of a big fall.

The goats would need seeing to.

She'd have to put them in the barn. No way Talek would've been able to do that.

He'd been so strong when they'd met. A soldier rising swiftly through the ranks of the Kulsa'Jadean.

He was a young man when she’d first met him. Kneeling beside her and looking at her across a dead body.

How soft his eyes had been and in that crazed instant he seemed to understand why she slipped the blade so easily into a man who wanted something she no longer had the will to give.

Talek hadn't reached for her. Had just knelt there, waiting.

Watching.

Why he'd bothered to help her, she didn't know. Even now. But he had. And saw in her more than she ever did. Without him, she'd never have worn the uniform falling apart on her body.

A uniform she'd once been proud to wear.

Why she still wore it, she couldn't say. Only that perhaps it reminded her of how far she'd come. Of how she'd fought so long and hard to reclaim her soul from the ruthless streets.

No one recognised the uniform out here in the Deadlands.

Who could?

With all the patches, it hardly resembled what it had once been. And even if it did, not many alive knew it for what it was.

She touched her fingers to her hair, feeling the small ribbons of cloth tangled up in her locks. These, too, were part of her path from street to salvation.

She snorted at the thought. Now they served as reminder of her failures. Her mistakes.

A suitable burden to bear when faced with Talek’s horrific wounds.

“Fucking cold,” she growled, rubbing her hands together. One of her palms itched and she scratched at it before blowing hot air into her cupped hands.

She stifled a yawn.

Then realised what had been nagging her.

Head snapped up to look sharply toward the cabin.

The chimney.

Usually, smoke drifted lazily into the sky.

But today the sky was empty of that lonely black trail.

Had he fallen asleep on the porch without keeping the chimney going?

How long had it been since the fire went out?

Had he fallen?

Had he-? She couldn't bear to think of what he might have done.

Her heart began to beat faster. She squinted to see even the barest trace of smoke.

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He loved that fire. Said the warmth made him feel more relaxed. That the nerves twisting constantly in his body seemed dulled when pressed against the stone.

To her, it was a ridiculous thought. How could he enjoy the heat after all that happened?

“Stupid thing to do,” she'd told him many times. “Get away from it. It's too hot.”

He always smiled, refusing to move. “So? What can it do to me? Burn me? I already got enough scars. What's a few more?”

She was never able to look at him when he spoke like that. Never saw his sorrow as he noticed her discomfort, but she felt it. Felt the helplessness ooze from him as he couldn't think of anything comforting to say.

Now, looking at the cabin, fear prickled the back of her neck.

The shadows crept across the valley, lapping at the light with their long dark tongues.

Where was he?

Sometimes he tried to walk further than the porch. She half expected to see him hobbling along the path toward her.

Maybe he'd managed to walk further today. Maybe he wasn't near the house.

Quickening her pace, the elf chewed hard at her lip. Rising panic drummed in rhythm with the ache in her head.

And then she saw the first print in the mud.

Horse.

She dropped to a crouch, the thrumming in her brain stopping abruptly as her mind kicked into gear.

More than one.

Could be a dozen of them.

Heading toward the cabin.

Then caught sight of a few bootprints half-hidden by a thin layer of slush.

The sudden rush of horror enveloped her heart.

“Talek,” she croaked. Began sprinting toward the cabin. “Talek!”

No answer.

She lurched forward, ignoring the winding path to dash into the fields. She ran like a crazed goblin, dodging ditches and leaping the larger rocks.

Nearly slipped on a patch of snow but caught her balance and kept running.

The tight grimace on her face grew harder. Fear swelled in her guts, dragging her onward. Dizziness ate at each step as alcohol surged through her blood.

She could smell it.

Not the stale beer. Not the wretched stench of her own body. But the quiet dry stink of death.

And even before her eyes made out the crumpled shape on the shadow-drenched porch, she knew what she would see.

“Talek!”

His name was a shriek which pierced the silent cold with violent despair.

Her throat constricted and her vision blurred as tears clawed from her eyes. Rushing up the stairs, she dived at his corpse. Snatching him into her arms, eyes wide in disbelief as she saw the handle of the knife buried in his chest.

“What the fuck?” Her hand circled the handle, but she couldn't bring herself to touch it. Couldn't bear to remove it, as though pulling it out might cause his body to disintegrate in her arms.

Instead, she let out a soul-cleaving wail and pulled him close. Nostrils filling with the smell of him and the poisonous stink of old blood.

He was cold.

Horribly cold.

She wept freely, squeezing so tight to his body as though trying to absorb him into her. Her sobbing was a river of grief rushing through her.

“I'm sorry,” she whimpered through a curtain of tears. Every sound she uttered felt like she was trying to push her fist through the eye of a needle. “I wasn't here. I should’ve been here. Again, I failed you. I always failed you. I'm sorry. Talek. So sorry.”

She rocked him in her arms until a small part of her mind clicked into cold hard focus and told her to let him go.

How long she'd knelt there with him, she couldn't say. But it felt like days. Was probably only minutes. Her mind, an overwhelming fog inside her skull, acknowledged he was dead. And accepted she needed to move.

Death was nothing new to her. She'd seen the Old Skeleton's face and felt the dry breath of the Shadowed Halls blow across her spine many times.

But this was different.

This was Talek.

The back of her hand brushed his cheek, awed by the emptiness which existed within his body.

It was just a shell. A container.

Whatever had been inside to form the man she loved was gone. And it would never return. No matter how much she held him.

The warmth passing from her body into his did nothing to turn meat into living flesh.

The elf's jaw tightened.

She let him go. Lifted herself to her feet. Rolled her shoulders and entered the cabin.

Saw the mess but didn't register it. Found a blanket and took it outside to cover him while she worked.

Got a shovel from a small locker on the porch.

Walked a small distance from the house. Near a stone he'd liked to sit on during the summer while she worked the farm. Remembered his eyes following her every movement. Like bees buzzing around her back.

She'd hated his gaze on her.

Now, she'd do anything to have him look at her. To feel those eyes staring into her own.

Just one more time.

Began to dig.

The snow sighed around her. Lightly at first, it eventually obscured her vision.

But she kept digging. Each thrust of the shovel was another thrust to her heart.

The frozen earth resisted almost every attempt to dig the hole, but even had it been made of steel she would have persisted.

By the time she was satisfied with the depth, she was surprised to see night had completely consumed the land. She hunted for a small oil lamp which had miraculously survived the ransacking of the cabin and lit it on the porch to bathe the yard with a warm yellow glow.

Shivering in the cold, she dragged his body as gently as she could to the makeshift grave.

His boots scraped across the ground, leaving two thin lines.

Her eyes blurred and she wiped at the rippling tears with her shoulder as she struggled with his weight. Even though the burns had taken much of his muscle, Talek was still large for an elf. Almost as big as a Fnord.

She rolled him easily into the hole, noting with regret that it wasn't long enough, and his knees had to bend a little for him to fit. She paused, thinking how fragile he looked. How lost. She draped the blanket over him and stared into the grave.

She wasn't just burying her husband, she thought. She was burying herself.

Her past.

Her future.

Everything she'd become was tied to him. She owed him more than she could repay and, as she knelt beside his grave, she wept again. Not for her loss, but for the fact she never had a chance to tell him. Tell him she was to blame.

To beg for forgiveness.

The protruding handle poked up through the blanket's folds. She frowned.

Reached slowly into the grave and took a tight grip on the knife.

Tugged.

It refused to give.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered to his corpse. “I gave you so much pain in your life. But this, I swear, will be the last time.”

And, sobbing with the horror of it, she tore the blade free. The smell of old blood made her gag but, lifting the blade free of the freshly dug grave, she eyed the hook knife with professional curiosity.

Not the kind of blade a professional would normally use to stab through the sternum. It was too curved for that.

An amateur, then.

Or, she thought coldly, Talek had pissed them off enough they'd used the first thing which came to hand.

She preferred this excuse.

Pulling herself to her feet, she gazed down at the covered body of her husband and wished for words fitting the moment. But she'd never been much for words. And those words she knew well enough were bitter.

Instead, she ran her fingers through her ragged hair and allowed a few more tears to fall. Lifted her hand in helpless salute. A poor imitation of the one used by the Kulsa'Jadean he'd loved so much.

Then, choking back her emotions, shoveled dirt down onto the body. Sweat poured down her face and arms as she worked. Even fresh falling snow melting on her back didn’t cool her down.

When it was done, she looked around the yard. Saw the goats milling around nervously in their crooked pen.

Sighing under her breath, the elf headed toward them, shovel in hand. Unhitched the gate and flung it open. “Get the fuck out,” she growled. “Go on, you dumb animals. Move. Move! Out!”

Bleating nervously, they skittered through the gate and away. Jogged toward the side of the cabin and danced around each other, keeping her in view as she took a few measured steps into the pen.

Then brought the shovel down hard. Dug another hole in the centre of the small pen. Ignored the smell of goat shit and piss as she kept digging.

Deeper.

Until the shovel’s dented blade hit something with a dull thunk.

She clawed at the ground to reveal a small chest, which she heaved out of the rancid soil with a grunt. The lock on the side was heavy but broke free after a few good hits with the shovel.

Inside, a small wooden box lay half-wrapped in oilskin. Beside it, also in oilskin, a large sheathed knife.

The knife she already knew intimately and felt no need to unwrap it. She tucked it into her belt. The box, she held in her hand.

It fit snugly into her palm. Her thumb rubbed against the metal ribs and along the alien runes. Something about it had always given her the creeps so it wasn't hard to accept Talek's insistence it should remain hidden.

He told her it was dangerous. Powerful.

Told her his family had protected it for generations.

And now he was dead, she was determined to keep it with her. Though she couldn't explain why, she knew it was the right thing to do.

Shoving it inside her jacket, she turned back to the skittish goats.

“Go where you like. Stick around the house for a while until winter moves on. That's my advice. Take it or leave it.” She smiled a wry smile whose humour didn't touch her haunted eyes. “You ain't kids no more.”

One of the shaggy goats gave a forlorn bleat, but she was beyond caring for their future. Until she gave an absent count.

One was missing.

Cocking her head, she noticed marks close by the small barn. Following the trail, she found blood and what was left of the goat. Figured Talek's murderers had dragged it into the barn to butcher it. They'd taken the easiest cuts and left the rest.

She wondered if Talek had been killed over a goat. But if they were so desperate for food, why leave the others? It made no sense.

Annoyed, the elf knelt beside the bootprints.

There were at least four sets. One was big. He seemed to have done the deed, judging by where he'd been standing and the angles of blood sprayed over the walls and ground. The cuts in what was left of the carcass suggested an axe.

Strange choice for butchery, she thought.

Another pair of boots were about her size.

The scattered bootprints looked to be pretty much the same make and design and she guessed they were part of a uniform. Something about them looked familiar, though she couldn't quite place it.

Maybe soldiers of a new guild she hadn't encountered. Plenty of guilds cropping up these days as Lostlight's internal politics made and destroyed ties both old and new.

Or mercenaries? Lost in the Deadlands?

She grunted in annoyance. They could be anything. Could be Caspiellans for all she knew.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked around for something else.

Anything, really. Any hint. Something helpful.

Found nothing.

Why they'd come here if not for the goat was a mystery, and whether Talek's death was their goal or an effect, she couldn't tell. Did they get what they wanted? She couldn't be sure of that, either.

But she’d find out.

One of them would talk.

She had no doubt about that.

The trail led southward, along the winding track leading out of the valley. Further into the Deadlands. Given the nature of the valley and the lack of decent tracks or towns for them to head for, their decision wasn't much of a surprise.

They could only have gone north or south. They'd chosen south, and now so would she.

Out here, there was only one place they'd likely be heading toward. Grimwood Creek. A large town known for being a hive of mercenaries, smugglers, and worse. And that was just the tavern.

Before that, maybe two or three small trading towns depending on which trail they took. Spikewrist would be the obvious choice. She’d start there.

Staring out through the falling snow, the elf spat from the corner of her mouth and headed back into the house. Kicked the door shut behind her.

They'd killed Talek.

They were gonna pay with every last drop of blood they had.

A goat bleated. She heard them scuttle up onto the porch, looking for a place out of the icy wind and snow.

Their hooves thudded on the wood.

She settled on the edge of the bed she'd shared with her husband and imagined he was there behind her. Moaning in his sleep.

Her fists gripped the blanket and knuckles whitened.

She bit her cheek and tasted blood.

Exhausted, the elf closed her eyes. Aware she could go nowhere in the snow.

She was unconcerned with the pace of Talek's murderers. Reasoned they would also need to hole up somewhere in this weather. Probably in one of the trenches dug along the valley's lips. Or, if they were further out, an abandoned mine.

There were enough of them littered across the high plains.

Both Rule and Grim had needed metal to make swords during the thousand years the gods and their armies had battled back and forth across the Deadlands. The scarred land, product of this war, was now a barren wasteland as cracked and blistered as her husband's flesh.

Her expression settled grimly into place.

Snow was a relentless shushing noise which made her pulse trip and tumble. She rubbed the scar on her cheek and lay back on the bed, listening to the world freeze outside the cabin.

She hoped by morning the snow would ease. Knew if she didn't catch Talek's killers before, then she could make Spikewrist in two days and hopefully they'd still be there.

Her memories of the town were vague, but enough to remember being unimpressed. It was a slightly bigger town than Highwall, with a few more stores used mostly by Traders heading to the coast.

Other than that, all she knew was that the tavern watered its beer.

Good enough reason for her to prefer Trollspit.

The hook knife lay on the table beside her and she stared at it as she was nudged slowly towards sleep by the dull effects of alcohol and grief. With each passing second, the icy wreath around her heart began to melt. Heated by a ball of rage glowing deep in her belly like a volcano's heart.

Thoughts of her belly made her stomach growl and she realised she hadn't eaten since morning. And that hadn't been much more than a shred of cheese and bite of bread.

She recalled the animal Talek's killers had butchered.

The meat they'd stolen.

And, as her eyes closed, thought she muttered; “Now they've really got my goat.”