There is no charm or ward in the world that Sigismund could have purchased in advance that would have allowed him to have better advanced warning of his demise than his very own nightmares. They’re far more graphic as well.

He rolls over and looks around the clearing in a panic. He isn’t sure how long he has lain in desperately needed slumber, but his clothing has somewhat dried out in the intervening time. He shivers in the cool autumn air.

Dirt cakes his arms that feel like they have been replaced with bruised lead batons. He brushes it off his sleeves as best as he can while trying to rub some warmth back into his aching limbs. The foot that is missing its protective boot hangs at an unnatural angle from its ankle. The skin surrounding it has gone from bruised to black. His toes cannot wriggle on command and the attempt to convince them to do so only causes terrible pain.

There is no way he can walk with his foot in this state, never mind run. There is no escape now, but to hope he can crawl to Aegis Township unnoticed by predators, both the unnaturally large variety and the more mundane sort.

There are two arrows left in his quiver, and the bow is still at his hand. Some force or luck has left the old and highly oiled wood undamaged by its trip down the falls. Even the string, still slack against the wood, is undamaged.

Just in case, because it never hurts to be prepared for violence, he braces the bow on his good foot and pulls the wound gut string taught.

A sound startles him as he bends the bow to his will. He looks around again, checking his surroundings in every direction.

High above him, at the top of the rocky cliff face, the outline of the trees against the sky changes shape. A black face set in a darker mane of long, black hair peers at him from on high. Bright yellow beady eyes glow brightly from the shadow of its mane.

It looks down at him and slowly, so slowly, the long snout contorts into a mockery of a grin.

The creature makes a guttural growl, like gears grinding. The raspy noise sets every hair on Sigismund’s neck on end and he fumbles for an arrow. There are only two.

The route down the side of the cliff, if one will not take the straightforward route and simply slide down the slippery rock, is treacherous. The monster has to pick where to place each of its enormous paws carefully. The cliff is almost sheerly vertical, but while few have climbed down it, many children and children-at-heart have certainly climbed up it.

This gives Sigismund time to notch his killer’s arrow, draw back the bow with trembling arms, sight down the length of the shaft, and release.

The arrow files true and buries itself into the exposed back of the monster’s neck. It does not react.

Sigismund fumbles for the second arrow.

“Run you fool!” a familiar voice commands from the opposite side of the deep pool and high above.

Sigismund has not forgotten his terrible night, trapped on the flat rock in the center of the river. He knows this monster could not cross water. He knows that getting back into the river is his only escape.

And he hates it.

There is an aversion there that runs deeper than even his fear of the monster. The water holds only more pain. It is a known quantity.

His stiff fingers find the second arrow. The beast is still carefully traversing the cliff face. Each of its massive paws is as large as twice his hand span. It is no wonder that it has trouble using a path that was intended only for comparatively tiny human hands and feet.

Muscle memory aids his movements as he pulls back the bowstring a second time.

The arrow flies true a second time, lodging in the massive monster’s beady left eye. This, it reacts to.

The monster shakes its head and howls in pain. It slides down the remaining distance as it loses its footing. Its long and thin limbs flail against the dirt. The dull claws dig deep trenches through the tree roots that form the makeshift stairs up to the top of the waterfall.

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It is almost too late when Sigismund recognizes his mistake. Instead of removing the monster as a threat, he has only made it more angry, more dangerous. And its ungraceful tumble downward is much, much more swift than the carefully picked steps it had been taking. Instead of having likely minutes to make the safe escape into the water, he has scant seconds.

In those remaining seconds, Sigismund scrambles on hands and knees to drag himself to relative safety.

When his face reaches the water’s edge, he freezes. He just can’t do it. He can’t swim. He can’t swim.

He can’t swim.

The crumbling dirt of the cliff wall splashes into the water and disrupts the patterns of its ripples. Sigismund has no choice. He must swim. A dog barks.

He shoves himself forward just as the monster regains its footing behind him. It surges forward and a canine mouth filled with far too many sharp and ugly teeth snaps closed in the air behind him.

On the other side of the pool, a small dog barks furiously.

Sigismund crawls through the water, splashing helplessly on all fours. The muddy bottom of the river clouds the water where his efforts disrupt its stillness.

He splashes deeper and the monster steps into the still water of the river’s edge to follow. The pool laps at its giant paws, but it can go no deeper. It snarls at him, a horrible grinding noise emitting from those powerful jaws.

Sigismund struggles in the water, paddling furiously with his two uninjured hands. His useless foot fails him entirely at last. He cannot move the limb adequately to get a good kick in to propel himself forward. The best he can do is stay floating.

But he is exhausted. There is no way he can keep this up for long. He inches slowly forward.

Sigismund can barely keep his head above water. His nose and mouth take priority. His feet cannot touch the bottom of the deep pool. His vision narrows once more into a tight tunnel in which he can see only brief glimpses of sky.

There is not enough air for him to scream. There is barely enough air for him to breathe at all. He kicks with all his remaining strength with his only good leg and flails with his arms. Each movement buys him precious seconds on the water’s surface.

His waterlogged boot and saturated clothing weigh him down. The bow still in his hand offers no flotation assistance.

This water is too deep.

A dark shape plunges into the water nearby. Someone grabs the bow and pulls at it. He refuses, even now, to give it up.

But that is only a good thing. His grip on the bow allows the other party to pull him to the surface. He struggles to catch his breath in shallow gasps. He breathes.

Sigismund allows the other swimmer to tow him onto shore. He coughs hard and spits out copious amounts of river water. It looked so much like the end was in sight. And now it is not.

He crawls onto the shore, having given up his bow to his savior. He coughs and sputters and spits out silt.

His injuries throb. The pain is a not so gentle reminder of everything this past day and night has put him through. It does not prepare him for what happens next.

The slippery wood of the old and sturdy bow touches the tender flesh of his neck.

On his hands and knees, he does not have the energy to look up at whomever holds it. It would have to be his savior. They seem content to lay him low instead. The wooden bow slides under his chin without applying pressure.

“You deserve this,” says the familiar voice.

Between the coughing and the pain of all his injuries, he cannot place it. But it is a woman’s voice, higher pitched and as coldly emotionless as the icy water itself.

The bow reminds him where he’s heard her speak before. She should be dead herself. He thought he’d killed her.

A broken arrow lands in the dirt next to his hands. A soft-soled boot steps on the broken shaft to prevent him from being able to pick it up.

“Deirdre, I-” Sigismund realizes he has nothing he can say.

But he remembers. Your fate is always yours to choose.

It echoes faintly in his memory.

Kinkiller, I name you. Oathbreaker, I expose you. You chose the chains that bind you. You built the cage that will hold you. Your hands, not mine, will be the ones to damn you.

And he realizes it is true. His fate is his to choose. And he has already made the wrong choice.

Is there even hope that things can change now?

“Yes,” he says, his voice shaking with the effort. “Yes, I deserve whatever you want to do.”

Sigismund closes his eyes and waits. Whatever his cousin chooses, it’s something he will have to accept. Life or death, he created this outcome when he chose to hunt her down to destroy evidence instead of letting her escape and dealing with the fallout. This entire series of events occurred out of his own need to succeed in every way that his family failed.

And if that hadn’t included minting his own false money, he wouldn’t be here today.

That drive and ambition had served him a bitter feast. And now he must devour it without complaint.

The dog is still barking.