“Petra! Petra! For God's sake, where are you?!” the shout shook Petra from her slumber.

Who was disturbing her down in the archives? None ever ventured here. Into the crypts beneath Rauheim castle.

“Petra!” the man nearly barreled into her as he rounded the corner.

Striggen. The witch-hunter's eyes were filled with panic. Something was very amiss.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, tongue dancing across his lips in nervous motion.

“Where are the ledgers? The black books? Where are they?” he asked hurriedly.

“What do you mean? What's wrong?” she asked, confused and unsure what had gotten the man so riled up.

“The king's forces are here! They just passed through the gates! The fool Trassin let them through!” he exclaimed.

“What?!” suddenly she understood what had panicked the man.

Every Malthorian in the Fourna gap had heard of Master Sonnac's arrest on King Charles' orders, it didn't take much to figure out what the new arrivals meant.

“They're here to arrest us! They're gonna hang us all! Fucking Trassin!” Striggen shouted, dragging Petra along behind him into the depths of the archival complex.

“Quickly, where are they? The black books, quickly, quickly Petra!” he shouted at her, in spite of their close proximity.

“Wrong way!” she pulled him aside, dragging the man down a side corridor, “The copies are in the logistical section!”

“What of the original? We have to destroy them Petra, right now! Quickly. Pass me a- Hand me your torch!” he gestured urgently, demanding the light she held in her hand.

She hadn't even realized the torch was there until now, its weight seeming to materialize from nothing.

“But our history. Our people! We'll lose them all!” she shouted back at him, hesitating to hand him the burning brand.

Striggen stopped, his face sinking with wary resignation. He needn't have said it, Petra understood.

“I know dear Petra. I know,” he said sadly, his frenetic motions slowing into morose severity, “But it is what we must do. Soon we'll be dead. You and I. There is no saving ourselves. They're sealing the fortress. We have nowhere to run.”

“But before we go, we must give our people a chance,” A small, pained smile touched his angular features for the briefest moment.

She gave him the torch. There was no more hesitation. Without second thought, Striggen threw the ancient volume to the cobblestones and carefully lit the withered pages. It burned. Fierce and bright in the dank darkness.

Shouts echoed from the archives entrance. Angry orders bellowed by the king's men as they cleared the old fortress.

“We don't have much time,” the senior witch-hunter said, “Tell me, where's the original.”

“Rikard took it to the north tower,” she said quickly, trying to prevent the panic from infecting her voice, “He wanted to study the reports for the master's defense.”

“Of course he did,” Striggen nodded matter-of-factly, glancing back across his shoulder toward where the shouts were coming from.

The old man's tongue danced across his lips as his gaze switched quickly between the door behind them and Petra.

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“Go. Go to the tower. Destroy the book,” he said abruptly, shoving a pistol into one of her hands and the torch in the other.

“I don't know how to shoot! I don-” she began to insist.

“I know. The pistols for you,” Striggen sighed, drawing an elegant rapier from the scabbard at his hip.

“Go!” he hissed at her, before turning back toward the door from whence the commotion emanated.

The archivist ran, the fortress passing by in a blur of ancient tapestries and slate gray walls. She ignored the gunshots. The cursing and shouting of the soldiers storming Rauheim echoing behind her as she raced across the flagstones. She only had to make it through the chapel, and the tower would be hers.

“There's someone over there!”

“Stop! Stop right there, by order of the king!”

Petra did not stop. She did not turn around. She ran.

“Shoot her!”

Her eyes went wide as she heard a woman's voice issuing the order. Instinctively, her hand reached for the Malthorian cross around her neck. It burned white hot.

The pop of gunshots followed by the crash of breaking stone and glass filled her ears. Her leg collapsed beneath her, pain lancing through the flesh as hot blood poured forth, inundating her socks and shoes.

No. No, no, no.

Petra pulled herself up. Glancing back to see a squadron of soldiery closing in. A lone woman stood among them, illuminated by the corona of warding that surrounded her. The archivist spun around, raised her pistol, and fired. Glass cracked and shattered, causing her attackers to hesitate as she dove for the stairwell, scrambling up the cold cobblestones with all the speed she could muster.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her as she bolted the room closed. Her heart was pounding with panic. She had to destroy the black book. The text sat open upon Brother Rikard's desk. No torch. No kindling. Dropped in the chapel below. She had no way to incinerate the record. Angry shouting echoed from beyond the doorway, followed by gunshots as the soldiers tried to blast apart the locks.

There's no way out.

The only entrances were the door and a single window. Petra slammed the book shut, eyes flitting desperately across the barren cell.

“Move aside!”

The same woman's voice, high and cold. The young archivist could feel the claws of fear clutching at her.

Escape. Escape. Get out.

It was the only thing on her mind. Her eyes glanced back at the window. The only way out.

The only way.

She was on her feet in seconds, scrambling through the narrow embrasure as the door exploded behind her, the Malthorian cross burning against her bosom with the magical backwash. For the briefest moment, her body hung in suspense as she forced her way clear of the embrasure. And then Petra fell.

She could feel herself falling. Plummeting to the woodland below. Her head spun, stomach churning as the ground raced to meet her. The archivist held it in her hand, pressed tight against her chest. The first black book. Her mind screamed.

Why was she falling? Why was she falling? Why?

Trees rushed to meet her. She wanted to slow her fall. She wanted it to stop. This couldn't be the end.

No, no, no. No!

----------------------------------------

Petra's eye snapped open, cold sweat coating her body in a glistening sheen, her breath coming in short ragged gasps. The fall had seemed so real. Darkness swathed the room, the church around her as silent as a crypt.

Breathe. Just breathe.

She stood up slowly, reaching for the water basin by the bedside and gazing at the image within. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips as she saw the face that looked back at her. Jagged scars ran the length of her left cheek, cutting across an empty eye socket and cascading down to her upper lip. Her hand shook as she traced the white lines with slender fingers. The fall had been very real.

And yet she had lived.

Petra dressed in silence. It was difficult work with her deformed hand. The crippled limb couldn't really grip much anymore. Dark breeches and a simple shirt covered the scars that pockmarked her flesh. The bitter night chill prickled her skin, and she could see every rattling breath coalesce before her. None of that mattered now. Comfort was but a minor sacrifice. There had been worse.

“Leaving already?”

The priest's soft voice caught her by surprise. The old man's sympathetic gaze was given a ghastly glow by the lamp he held before him.

“I heard you crying out in your sleep,” he said slowly.

“It was just a nightmare, Father,” she shook her head and smiled slightly, feeling the scars upon her face stretching.

It must have been a hideous image.

“Is it not a bit early for departure?” the man inquired.

“It is, but I am short on time,” she said bluntly, tightening her belt and checking the pouches hanging along its outer edge, “I have an urgent meeting in Holine.”

Well, perhaps she had one. Whether or not it would come about remained to be seen. The priest simply nodded sagely, before gesturing to the exposed Malthorian Cross that hung about her neck.

“You should be careful, the snows are coming,” he said simply, a slight smile creasing his ancient face, "You don't want to get caught on the road."

“Thank you, I will keep it in mind,” she nodded haphazardly, adjusting the Malthorian Cross beneath her shirt so that it rested against her chest.

It was strange, the reassurance she found in that cold, metal sigil.

The priest bowed his head every so slightly and turned, making his way back the way he had come with the same eerie silence with which he had approached.

Petra waited, straining her ears to make out the faint sound of his fading footsteps in the distance. Finally. Silence. With well-practiced care she unlocked the latches on her rucksack, removing its oilskin-protected contents. Cautiously, reverently, she opened the container, her eye lighting up as she examined the prize within. The black book. The first of its kind, and last, intact.

Stained with the blood of her fall, its pages torn and damaged. Yet intact. Seven years it had been in her possession. A reminder of her duty as an archivist. A ledger containing the names and deeds of every Malthorian since the great saint himself.

She let out a rattling breath and snapped the container shut, hiding the tome from sight. Perhaps today would be the day. The day she would strike a positive note in the ancient text.

Gnawing on a strip of toughened jerky, she strode out into the wind-swept street, leaving the sanctuary of the church behind her. Her only belongings were in the rucksack slung across her back. It's hefty weight one to which she was accustomed. The sun was rising, and the fog was slowly dissipating, leaving the road to Holine free and clear. Petra straightened herself, drawing in a deep breath of the fresh morning air, smiling ever so slightly as she began her walk, contemplating the day ahead.

Today was going to be a good day. She was sure of it.