AUTHOR'S NOTE: The prequel gives a better background for establishing the characters, especially Sajantha and Miirym; this is basically just a continuation, so it's probably not the best introduction, I'm afraid. -_-; I've learned so much after writing all of this, so when I went back over it, it was rather clear where I screwed up xD... I think my writing style has changed a lot... it took me a little bit to get into the flow of it.

[edited as of March 2015] I added in some translations but mostly just tried to fix some weird errors where pieces of sentences or just random spaces got deleted somehow (hope it didn't happen the second time, too, agh!)... too busy on the sequel for anything else! ;)

It was a great learning experience and I'd like to thank everyone so so much for your feedback because I wouldn't have made so much progress without you all. :)

Mirtul 1, 1368 DR
Year of the Banner

The room flickered. Sunlight filtered through slatted beams overhead, sending shadows crawling as she ran. Cobwebs dangled, reached like fingers to trail up her back—to wind down her neck—to choke her. As if they tangled with the musty air gathered thick in her throat, she could not breathe—

Feet faltered, shadows flickering faster as her head dipped. A bar of light stretched beneath the door. She staggered towards it. The hand catching her balance caught splinters instead.

She stumbled, and the light stretched—split her vision like a crack—unyielding as the wooden door before her. With no other way to channel her momentum, her fingers fumbled at the latch.

The gate swung open and the sun swallowed her. Blinking, but spots stayed in her eyes. Burned through them. She moved to wipe them—

"Sajantha?"

Her hand froze, all of her frozen in the cool spring air.

"Hey, there, Sajantha! You alright?"

No air to scream, but her breath came faster. She barely squeezed out a sound: "Dreppin?" The voice emerged unfamiliar. Painful. She reached towards her throat, and Dreppin's mouth fell open.

He was looking at her hands. He was looking at her hands, and his eyes were so wide that she had to look down at them, too; she had to see that which drew all the color from the young man's cheeks and painted her own skin.

Red.

Sajantha stared at her bloody hands. "What happened?" the stable-hand whispered, taking a step towards her. She stepped back; the barn wall struck the rest of the air from her. Her fingers gripped the doorframe—kept her upright—and the empty barn stared back at her, so unassuming and grievously banal that it was all too easy to believe nothing had happened. She wanted to believe that. And she could have, did not the evidence stain her own skin.

Dreppin followed her gaze, and a frown slipped onto his face: grim lines that stretched his lips thin and grooved into his brow, furrowed it into a question. Perhaps her wide eyes held answer enough.

He reached for the shovel leaning against the wall beside her. It scratched against the wooden side of the barn as he drew it close; its metal scrape so very like the sound of a blade being drawn that she flinched. A weapon. Dreppin hefted the tool awkwardly. Far more proficient in its intended use than as a makeshift bludgeon, he still did not hesitate to push open the door, set on confronting whatever she had left behind.

"Don't—" she wanted to say—wanted to stay—but somehow she re-tread steps right behind him, somehow her nerveless feet followed.

Not far. Had it been so few steps, to stretch like miles in her mind? Dreppin had already stopped. His hefted shovel bit into the ground with a crunch that sank into her bones; she tried not to jump. "He's dead," she said, before he could. "I think... I think he's dead."

Dreppin's turn to jump. He threw a wild glance over his shoulder, raking a hand through his hair. "What—what in the hells happened? Er, beggin' yer pardon, Miss Sajantha."

He swallowed, and in the nervous bob of his throat, she saw again fingers clutching, clenching. Choking. She lifted an unsteady hand to her own neck. "He tried to kill me." Somehow saying it didn't make it seem any more real, even with the bruised evidence on her throat.

The shovel tipped, unnoticed, as Dreppin took a closer look. "You alright?" His voice emerged as hoarse as hers.

Sajantha nodded. She was alive, and that was something—wasn't it? She was alive and her assailant was not, because—because—

Dreppin cleared his throat, looking towards the fallen figure. The body. "This fellow, you ever seen him before?" She shook her head, kept shaking it til he glanced back up to see it. "What was he doing skulking about the stables, I wonder?" Dreppin cocked his head. "Matter of fact—what were you doing back here? It's not so often we see you runnin' about out-of-doors."

"Phyldia thought she might have left a book over here." The utter absurdity of it combined with Dreppin's still-concerned expression prompted a laugh to hiccup loose.

Sajantha slid down the doorway's wooden post, her back to the scene. "I..." The laughing gasp broke free again, sounding ever-closer to a sob: "I can't believe—"

"Hey, hey, now." Dreppin crouched before her. "It's okay. It's over. You're alright."

"But he's—he's dead," she said, and saying it aloud did not lend it any sense, did not shine any more light through the dim, latticed room. Her voice dropped to a whisper, "I killed him, didn't I?"

Dreppin glanced away. "He ain't breathing, that's for sure."

Sajantha bit her lip but a cry still built beneath it. She brought up her hand to smother it, but her hand was red. It was bloody. The sob that scraped free of her throat hurt far more than it should have.

Dreppin blocked the light as he stood, drew his shadow after him. The speed with which he returned surprised her—her own first thought had been of escape.

"Here," he offered, kneeling beside her once again. "You look a bit green. Might be I've just the thing." Sajantha stared at the potion outstretched in his hands. "Ain't much left after Nessa got through with it, but even a drop oughta clear you right up."

It would hurt too much to laugh again. She squinted at the mixture. "You're giving me something you fed to your cow?"

Dreppin settled back onto his heels. "She didn't be drinking it right out of the bottle, now, did she?" He unstoppered the mixture with care. "Besides, it was Hull's first of all; Imoen can tell you so."

"Imoen can't tell a potion of antidote from a potion of firebreath," Sajantha muttered, but she took the vial.

He gave her a small smile. "Well, I can vouch as Nessa's not seen a better day soon as we got that liquid in her—and no fire 't all."

Not that any fire could exist within Candlekeep that the wards did not allow. She managed to smile back at him. Hull's? A hangover remedy, most likely. It settled her stomach, but did little to calm her nerves. She leaned back against the doorframe, as drained as the empty bottle. "Thanks, Dreppin."

"Of—of course, Miss Sajantha." He straightened again, looking about; his nerves seemed wound tight as her own. "I should go and—well. Someone should report this." Almost like a question, the opening gave Sajantha pause.

Reality intruded, then, in the returning pound of her heart, in the coldness of the glass between her fingers. Sajantha squeezed the empty bottle tighter. She had killed a man. She had killed a man! And it would not be long, now, before everyone would know, that this numbness need give way to something tangible, to a truth she'd be forced to face as fact. Face the others.

"Don't—" she almost said, and as the word grew with an urgency to fill her mind, as it came to fill her mouth—she knew that if she loosed it, if she asked—she knew that he would obey her. She knew it with a certainty that belied how well she knew the man. He would do as she asked. She knew, somehow, he would even help her cover this up... she had only to suggest it.

Possibility burned on her lips like the residue of the potion, and she swallowed it back down. She could do that. But the truth would get out, sooner or later.

And what would her father think?

"Came as soon as I heard. What with me drowning in laundry suds, wasn't near quick enough—darn ol' Puffguts!" Imoen ceased her grumbling the moment she looked around the clinic, lowering herself to a seat beside Sajantha and lowering her voice: "The hells happened, Sajantha? Are you—are you okay?"

"The bastard tried to wring her neck," Dreppin answered for her with a glare, and Sajantha was as grateful for his interjection as the ire that filled him on her behalf.

Imoen turned to look down the hall, her fingers tightening into Sajantha's shoulder. "Wh—why, the nerve of some folk! Where is that wretch? I hope you showed him, Sajantha, I really do."

"Well—" Sajantha's voice emerged in a croak, and she coughed. "I guess you could put it that way. He's dead. I... I killed him." However quietly she spoke them, however she longed to distance herself from them—the words returned to echo, and seemed to fill the room: lengthening with the silence to tower over them both.

The silence stretched on, a pause in which Sajantha became very aware of the arm that still rested about her shoulders and its growing weight—a weight that seemed to increase, dragging heavier with each creeping second.

"Good on you!" Imoen said after an interminable moment, giving her a clap on the back. "Good riddance. I'da done it myself, if you hadn't already."

"I wouldn't wish you any trouble on my account." The weight of Imoen's arm had not disappeared, but it was no longer a burden, just a warmth.

"What else are friends for?" Imoen gave a little shrug. "The gods know I've left you swimmin' in hot water before. Once or twice. Only when you could handle it, but—something like this... You know I wouldn't have you face it alone."

"Thanks," Sajantha whispered, and let her head tip against Imoen's shoulder.

"'Course. We none of us would let you down; Gorion, neither." Imoen leaned forward, arm tightening around Sajantha. "He's fixing to haul you right out of here, mark my words."

"What do you mean?" Sajantha sat up, saw Imoen making a face.

"Forget I said anything."

Her father flew into the room with a swirl of cloak and sound. Not until the door slammed shut behind him did his robes fall still against his ankles.

It was more than his keen gaze that warmed Sajantha, alighting on her as swiftly as it did—the room seemed brighter, somehow, with him in it. It seemed full. And so did she: invigorated with a new energy, more than enough to propel her across the room—Sajantha closed the distance, enclosed herself between those great green sleeves that rose to envelop her.

"Father," she choked. From within his embrace, the rest of the world seemed so distant, as if the curtain of robes could mute more than just sound. He squeezed her back just as tight. That pressure released another; somehow she could breathe again. "Oh, Father, it was horrible."

It will be alright. The fire in the hearth and her father's embrace grew stifling as she held her breath, waiting to hear his reassurance.

"Ah, my child..." he spoke at last, and his quiet voice wheezed out a sigh: melancholy woven into breath.

"What is it?" When she stepped back, it was as if darkness was free to descend upon her in the chill of his absence; that same grim dread that enshadowed his own self clutched at hers. "Father...?"

"Make your farewells," was all he said. "We leave tonight."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"Told you so," Imoen muttered as Gorion led Sajantha, ever his shadow, from the room. Not that anyone should have been surprised, really; you didn't need to work divination to see this was shaping into some kind of mess.

And Gorion somewhere at the root of it. Harper business, if she had to guess—leastways, that letter she'd found seemed to say as much. That man could try the patience of the Crying God himself with all this underhanded mystery. Wasn't Imoen's fault she had to be equally evasive when it came to uncovering the goings-on about the keep. And if she hadn't been poking about, well, she'd have nothing near an idea of what was going on; never mind the sick feeling that came of confirming it was bad news, all of it. What we have long feared may soon come to pass...

So maybe it had taken a peek at that letter on his desk to spur things off, but Gorion had been acting strange for tendays, now. And there had been some peculiar fellows about the keep of late—one of them she was sure she'd just seen. That should have been nigh on impossible what with Candlekeep's strict rules of limited entry. Some kind of sorcery at work? Ulraunt wouldn't start making exceptions, him being so against their own extended stay.

"What do you know of it, kid?" Hull asked.

"Kid!" Imoen turned away from the door, hands on her hips. "Watch yourself, Watcher. How many ways I got to prove to you I ain't a kid no longer?" She waggled her eyebrows and gave him a wink, smirked as he scowled. "Saw something I maybe shouldn't have, is all."

Hull crossed his arms, with a little bit of a glare in his eyes and a little bit of pink to his ears, but that was definite curiosity on his face. "Yeah? And what was it this time?"

Dreppin shook his head with a wry smile for her. "Immy, you couldn't stay out of trouble we tied you up."

"You'd have to catch me first!" Imoen made a face, a smirk she didn't really feel. "I'll tell ya what I saw, though: bit of paper with words enough to shake things up. Sajantha's not long for Candlekeep, not at all."

A silence fell for a moment, giving their hungry minds a chance to digest. Food for thought, right? Then the door swung open again, like some errant exclamation point. One of the other Watchers clanked on in—on duty, if the armor weighing him down meant a thing.

"We've turned the town upside-down, and sure enough—another rat came scrabbling out," Fuller said. With all that clatter in his full plate, he had their attention even before he started waving the paper around: "This was on him." He handed the paper off to Hull with a nod. "Chief's questioning the fellow right now."

Hull stared a moment, then let out a low whistle. Imoen's curiosity ballooned near to bursting. "Was this what you saw?" he asked, as his eyes flicked up. "Looks like our girl's got a bounty on her."

"Lies and fiddlesticks!" snapped Imoen, eagerness deflating with a pop. Still quick to swipe the paper out from under him, she left Hull blinking at his empty hands. "Leave the bull-talkin' for the cows, here," she added, shouldering the much-larger man aside as she hunkered down beside the firelight to peer at the page.

She took her time scanning it, but it was straightforward enough that its meaning was unmistakable. As unmistakable as the drawing of the half-elf that stared out from the page: short curls, big eyes and all.

"Huh." Hull had it true, or near enough. A bounty notice. The other side will move very soon. "Two-hundred... You could buy a lot of ale for that." And speaking of ale, it was something very like that sick feeling of over-indulging that bubbled up inside her gut. The paper crumpled a bit in her hands.

"That's two-hundred coin in gold, girl: not copper, not silver. It's blood money." Fuller took the letter back, smoothing it out with a great deal of care. "And this here is evidence. We'll need it to conduct a proper trial."

"Proper, my foot!" Imoen said, giving it a stamp. "There won't be any sort of trial. Gorion's dragging her off as we speak; your witness will be gone afore the sun is."

"We won't be needing Sajantha for a witness, Imoen."

"You just said there was another of these scum-scuts. What's the trial for, it ain't him?"

Fuller frowned at her language, or maybe at her misunderstanding. "Sajantha killed someone, Imoen. It follows there will be a trial—for her—regardless of the circumstances."

Imoen drew in a sharp breath, hands heading for her hips, and he cut her right off: "We can't just ignore it. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it was self-defense—but we need to find the truth."

"The truth!" Imoen had to force out a laugh. "You all know her, same as me. What's this 'maybe'? 'Course it was self-defense! Why would she do it at all, if he didn't come at her first?"

Fuller kept his impenetrable guard-duty face on. So, he wanted to play it that way? A loud sigh spilled from Imoen before she locked her arms together tight. "Alright. Fine. Let's say Sajantha was actually set to kill someone. Had the poor sod picked out and everything. Why bother forging up some bounty notice to excuse it? She's smart. She could come up with something better, if'n she really wanted. In fact, no one would even miss him! She could have had him well-and-buried without a fuss 't all."

Hull sighed. "You're not really helping, Imoen."

"And I don't mean to be! You want to point fingers and call her a murderer? Well. If you're crazy enough to actually believe it, not a thing I can say'll bring you around."

"Imoen." Fuller looked like he was trying real hard to be patient and didn't much care for it. "No one is accusing her of anything. The trial's an official procedure, nothing more. It's as Ulraunt speaks it, and there's none of us can argue."

"Then he'd best be the one to haul after Gorion his own self, because that man's not waiting for no one or no thing—and I sure wouldn't stand in his way." Sajantha's father hadn't never looked more serious, not even the time he had caught Imoen nicking coins off the donation plate in the temple. "You want his girl so bad, you've got to cross him first." She gave a firm nod for some extra emphasis: good luck with that. If Gorion ever came after her looking the way he did, she'd take off clear in the other direction and keep underground for a good tenday. A month, even.

"I, I saw her, sir. Right after," Dreppin spoke up, and his words tumbled out like maybe he'd been straining to hold them in this whole time. "She were real shook up. I'd say the same before Ulraunt and any judge: Sajantha ain't no murderer."

"There'll be more of these folk after her," Imoen spoke up just as quick. "They've just got to run. That's why they're leaving now." A moving target is much harder to hit. And that hushed the group right up; with no ammunition to reload, they fell silent. Imoen couldn't feel triumphant, though, not at all. Not when it was the urgency of the situation she had pointed them all towards.

"The both of them by themselves? Out there in the wilds, in the dark? That'll be tough for two skirts." Hull threw the soldiers' slang lightly, but there was some real concern underneath.

"Well, I don't aim to let them go it alone, I don't." Imoen straightened, brushing off her trousers. "Sajantha needs an eye on her, sure as anyone."

Hull hesitated. "You know the rules, don't you? If you cross that gate, well... you can't exactly hop back over the wall. Not even you, Imoen."

She put on a grin. "I'll be back, don't you fear."

He shrugged a little bit. "A thousand's a bit pricey for a visit."

Imoen shrugged right back. "I'll make my fortune—and some more, besides. I'll be back to visit; see if I don't!"

"You'll see how the big the world is, and forget about us little people." Fuller made a bit of a racket shifting in his armor. "But don't let us stop you."

"I sure wish I could go with you all," Dreppin said.

"Just who's stopping you? Saddle up old Nessie here, and we'll be gone in two shakes of her tail."

"Aw, I really wish I could, but... what do you need me for? A stable-hand won't do you no good out there. And Nessa's not the only one with a weak stomach."

"Well, swell!" Imoen stuck out her tongue before turning to the guardsmen. "I s'pose you two got the runaround for me next?"

Hull scratched his head. "You want the Gatewarden chasing down your trail as well? We'll be here keeping watch, as ever."

Imoen sighed, looking to Fuller without much confidence. "Sorry, kiddo," the older guard said. "But here—I got this dagger, my father's..." He gave the weapon a long look as he pulled it from his belt. "Killed him a hobgoblin with it once, stuck it right in the back." Fuller held the sheathed blade flat out in his hand. "Watch your back out there, okay?"

"Shucks, Fuller—you softie!" Imoen grasped the dagger and planted it proudly through her own belt before planting a kiss on the surprised guard's cheek. "You'd be more 'n welcome to join the fun."

Fuller rubbed the back of his neck. "We've a job here, you know. A duty we take seriously." But he looked pleased. "And we need to find out just how that sort of rabble managed to get past us. That can't be allowed to happen again. We'll be stepping up on security, for certain." He gave her a look: "Not such a bad time for you to be vanishing, maybe."

Hull was studying her. "You're sure about this, then. They're really leaving? And taking you along?"

Well, sure on one of those counts, at least. "I don't mean to be asking, so don't none of you say a word. They won't even know I'm along til it's past late to send me back."

"Just won't be the same without you girls stirring things up."

"Yeah, you'd best keep on your toes, or Winthrop'll have you elbow-deep in the rest of that laundry."

"Knew we kept you around for something."

"You'll miss me soon as I turn around, Hull—you know it!"

He rolled his eyes. "Already have someone else lined up to buy you ales, I bet."

"Harder to find someone worth drinking 'em with." A cheeky grin worked just as good as a wink; Hull shook his head, but his own grin peeked out.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

"How did I not see it?" Miirym kept to the upper stretch of the underhalls as she neared; her shadow halted well short of Sajantha as she hovered. "You have the mark of blood on you, of death—how did these blind eyes not see it?"

"Someone tried to kill me." The red on her hands was now from the fury of scrubbing them clean.

"Yet she does not perish, no; the child of chaos will weather the flood. She alone will. But... not alone? Is she leaving?"

"Yes, I—we're leaving the keep. My father and I. We're leaving tonight."

"And you will not be returning?"

"I can't say when. I don't think even he knows, for sure. But what I can say—well—I wanted to say goodbye. And," Sajantha reached into her pack, "I've a gift for you. It's not much, but..." She held it out. "I brought you color—all the colors. It's a prism, a prismatic ray. My father helped me enchant it."

No hands to grasp it, but a breath of magic lifted it into the air; a rainbow of lights hung between them as if painted there. "Until you can see the sky again," Sajantha said, squinting into the sparkle. "May the darkness be kind to you."

Miirym's voice fell quiet, as if she had drawn back a great distance. "Oh, the darkness will be to me as it has always been. May your kindness be enough to light your own path through it." Lights flickered on the dragon's empty skull as she turned her head. "Tell my tale, Sajantha. Set the world to weeping. Rivers will flow behind you. You will tell them, won't you? Sajantha? You will not let me be forgotten?"

Sajantha stretched out her hand, touching the cool bone of Miirym's forehead. She closed her eyes and imagined the feel of scales, warm with life. Imagined a gust of breath to stir the stale air. "I won't forget."

"Such a sweet child," Miirym murmured. "Such a thoughtful child. Will a thought be spared for me?"

"I'll come back to visit. I'm sure we'll be back."

"Such certainty, the surety of youth! All I am sure of is that today is darkness and tomorrow as well, and the day after that, forever and ever. That is truth, and that is all the life I know."

"I'll come back. I won't let you die here! I promise, I'll—"

"Darling," the wraith said, "I am already dead."

~*-{/=I=\}-*~

"This is real serious, huh?" Imoen asked. Like she didn't know the answer already. Like Gorion wasn't walking about with 'serious' etched into every line in his face. And those lines were looking deeper than ever. Kind of scary enough, itself. Any other day she might have sworn Gorion seemed the same as when she'd first met him, but now it looked like all those years piling up had just been waiting to bury him.

He looked old.

And he sounded it, too, unless that was just the strain of hauling around all that seriousness. "Yes," he said. "I'm afraid it is."

Just like that, he admitted it: not blowing her off, not skirting around or nothing. And what with the hurry he was in, that admission—and the seriousness squished in it—threw her right off. She shuffled her shoes together, found her footing. "You'll take care of her, though, won't you? Keep her safe?"

"I haven't been doing that twenty years to stop now," he said, with a little bit of his old twinkle. "I've friends enough to call upon. We will not be alone."

"I'd go too, you know. Watch her back."

Gorion paused. "And I would thank you for the offer. But the safest place for you is here."

'Safe.' What kind of word was that, anyway, when assassins could sneak right into your yard and strangle you in the stables?

"Sure," said Imoen.

He gave her a distracted smile and ruffled her hair; Imoen held in a sigh. That man didn't know her at all.

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

Parda smiled, but his crinkled eyes were worried. "Take care, child. I wish I could promise you'd be welcomed back whenever you should wish it, but even though the sentiment is there, I..."

"It's alright," Sajantha gave her tutor a hug. "I know the rules."

The scent of old books faded as he stepped back, though his arm lingered a moment against hers. "Ulraunt's looking for you," he murmured. "Tethtoril has kept him from making any formal charges thus far, but it may be best not to linger." He pressed his lips together. "I wish—I wish it were otherwise. These goodbyes are difficult enough." She squeezed his hand.

"You're really leaving, then?" Dreppin's voice came from behind her; Sajantha turned to find her worlds overlapping—the first time her friends from the abbey had mingled with those outside it, as if the moment needed any more unreality. "Candlekeep'll be a dreary place without ye, I tell you what. Won't be the same without your music to liven the place up, I mean. But if there's any more of this sort after you—the road's a sight safer for you, I reckon."

"Aye; that's the plan, anyway." And all she'd heard of it; her father had remained rather close-mouthed thus far. Sajantha smiled and ignored the tightening in her stomach as she stared out across the gate.

Hull clapped her shoulder. "Always knew you could handle yourself. Keep an eye out for that father of yours, now."

Dreppin nodded. "Folks out there—well, they ain't all the sort you'd find on this side of the walls. Them two today—they're just the first."

Hull let out a sigh. "There you go, turning the Keep upside-down again. I'd almost thank you for the excitement, were there less worry to place on your head with it."

"I've strength enough to carry them both with me, never fear—and if not, well—you are quite welcome to keep ahold of that worry for the both of us."

"Going to be glib about it, are you?" He chuckled. "Can't say that I'm surprised. Glad you've recovered yourself a bit; that was scary business."

"Glib!" Sajantha adjusted the straps of her satchel. "I'm quite serious, you realize. I'm afraid it's back to the daily drudgery of guarding a keep in which nothing ever happens, for you. I've got all that excitement stuffed well and truly tight into my pack now, and I aim to carry it with me. And the worry is sealed up tight enough that the bottles don't even clink together!"

"Aye, it will surely be quieter without you," he sighed. "Just so you pack some caution in there, too. Sometimes I wonder if the world's gone mad. May just be up to you to shake some sense into it."

"Mad or no—I really can't wait... all these places I've read about, and I'll get to see them! I wonder where my father will have us go first?"

"Gorion didn't raise you half bad, did he?" Hull grinned. "Keep yourselves safe out there."

"And you keep everything here just the way it is!"

Fuller cleared his throat, brow knit as he frowned at the two younger men. "I'm afeared for your safety out there, Sajantha. And now, doubly so. This talk of bandits seemed a faraway thing til they show up right at the door. And now..." He rubbed his neck. "Well. Take care."

"I'll be careful. So long as you keep on taking care of everything here; the keep wouldn't get by without you."

"You could say that on any one of us, so few of us here," he said, but he was smiling.

Dreppin shifted. "Well, I—you take care of yourself, now. We'll all miss having you about, I can tell you that much true."

"All of us, yep."

"Imoen!"

Her friend gave a little wave. "Heya."

"I..." Sajantha cleared her throat. "I can't believe this is it."

"Yep."

Sajantha glanced up at the towering spires. The late afternoon light left them in shadow. "My whole life here, and it's over, just like that."

Imoen dipped her head. "Starting up a new chapter, you might say. Maybe you should think of it like that."

"Maybe I will." The smile she'd been holding wouldn't fit on her face; she let it fall. "I—I'll write to you every day, Imoen."

"Tellin' me all your grand adventures?"

"Of course! And I expect you to practice your penmanship and write back, at least occasionally."

Imoen shuffled her feet. "Aww, you know I wouldn't leave you hanging." She pulled them into a tight hug.

"I'll miss you," Sajantha whispered into her friend's neck, and Imoen squeezed her tighter before letting go.

"You'd better get going. Mister G don't like to be kept waiting."

~*-{/=S=\}-*~

The crash of waves on cliffs had faded hours ago into a distant murmur, replaced by rustling trees. Her father stayed several steps ahead, his walking staff blazing a trail before them, his robes swish-swishing along the pebbled path.

Just where had all his energy come from? Sajantha's own adrenaline had worn off hours before, leaving her even weaker than the unaccustomed exercise could account for. Keeping up with her father, older though he was, had become more than a little difficult. She had barely the breath for conversation.

But he didn't want to talk. And perhaps that was just as well, for all Sajantha wished to hear was, "It will be alright," and—however she longed for it—she knew those words would not pass his lips.

He would not lie.

And if she were to speak, well, all she could offer was a litany of questions and fears, neither of which he seemed inclined to address. His only concern seemed to be movement: because the sun had set, and he had not stopped, as though some creatures from the Abyss flew just behind them, mounted on the swarming shadows. Because—though she stumbled and slipped on the uneven ground—he still would not slow.

And the branches that dragged and tangled in her hair were not the skeletal fingers of ghouls—they were not an assassin that reached after her and drew cold steel across her throat—but the chill of the night went far deeper than her skin, until even the breeze became a haunting breath expelled of every shadow.

"Father—" she said, because she had stumbled and she had stopped and he would not—her skirts were muddy and her shoe was caught— "Father, what's wrong?"

He came to a stop then, but did not look at her—his gaze turned upwards, as if the sky might hold answers that the darkened land did not. His feet brought him back to her and his eyes brought back the stars, as well; they shone out and came near to spilling free. He blinked.

"So much to say," he murmured, "and never the time for it. And now, I fear—too late." His voice wavered a bit like the thin fingers that smoothed back her hair as he knelt before her.

It must have been even more messy than usual, her tangle of curls, for the intensity with which he repeated the motion. But his gaze was somewhere else. "Get thee to the Friendly Arm." His hand stilled at last, resting on the back of her head. "I've friends there. They will look after you if I cannot."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, because the answer she heard in his voice was not one she could accept.

"My... my child," he murmured, his voice so full of tenderness it trembled, like the light in his eyes it flowed over. Their foreheads touched as he bowed his silver head. "Do not fight me in this."

Sajantha gripped his sleeve; the wiry arm beneath it shivered. "Never."

Her father looked up and his eyes blazed like the sun. "Run."

She shook her head—all that she could manage—only the fire in his gaze kept her from freezing completely. "Father...?"

His hand still rested upon her shoulder, but his eyes had left her. As she turned, she saw it: that storm on the horizon and the armored figures that stirred it. Were they so close, or so large? Their threat as obvious as their unsheathed weapons—they descended the hill-top, they filled the sky.

Sajantha could not move. A roar filled her ears even louder than her pounding heart.

Her father pulled her to her feet and pushed her away in one motion. "Run, child!"

A blast of energy struck her in the chest—knocked her back—and heat erupted down the length of her arm and the shoulder it stemmed from: an arrow—afire—enough to startle her from her stupor—

"Get out of here!" Through her pain she looked up to see a stranger wearing his face, twisting it into a terrifying expression. That was not her father, could not be—

"RUN!" he bellowed and raised his hand. The spell he loosed collided with something behind her, someone—she heard a cry but she didn't see, didn't look back. She ran. That chill air, she gulped it, it dove right inside her filled til she choked on it—the wind tore at her hair, ripping at her very seams as if it needed more ways to reach through her—

Sajantha ran.

The hill behind her exploded with light, with bursts of magic: a flurry—a fury—of spells. Clear even from this distance, it might have set the sky afire for miles. It cut the combatants into sharp silhouettes: a giant man that towered over her father and the muscled menace of two ogres towering over them both. Every spike of that giant's armor sliced the air with a jagged precision. Horns atop his helmed head, he loomed over her father like some great demon even as the ogres fell.

Sajantha watched. She watched that figure carved of darkness itself, lit only by a barrage of her father's spells, and barely flinching from them. She watched its sword sweep down.

No.

The wind whipped. It pulled, it howled, but Sajantha could not move. It tugged out her cry, forced it free of her lips: "NO...!"

The demon-man looked up.

"RUN!" said the wind—it shrieked in her ears—run run run.

She did not run, she flew.