Rain fell in unrelenting torrents, driving small craters into the soft mud. The downpour soaked the flapping banner. Wind forced the waterlogged canvas to flare up, flinging droplets of water from its dripping hem. Lightning split the sky and the ensuing thunder shook the air.

Cold streams ran down Kozin's face as he stared down at the stones before him. He blinked, pushing the water from his eyes. They streaked down his face like tears.

He knew where to place the next clue. It was the one at the very bottom of the list—Kozin fears being left behind. There was only one grave left with an empty fear and an empty name. He watched as his name carved itself into the banner of the second-to-last grave next to Oslan's.

He hated, hated, seeing his fear being laid out in bare words like that. It was something he would never admit, but it was true. He was afraid of being the last. The last of the Bears, the last of his brothers, the last of everyone he knew. But there was another item under his name: the one who remembers burying his brother.

Gaunter was telling Kozin that he'd see one of his brothers die—Oslan or Andryk. He'd have to light the funeral pyre, send them off.

Be left behind.

No, the witcher insisted to himself. Gaunter was lying. His clues had been tailored just to scare Kozin, to slide under his skin like a flaying knife. Surely they couldn't be true. Surely.

"I must say, you're making good progress," Gaunter remarked, his voice snaking above the hiss of the rain. "But are you sure you want to continue? It's only going to get worse from here. I'm only looking out for you, dear friend. You're looking rather pale." Something bumped roughly against the back of Kozin's thighs. He looked back. A crooked tree stump protruded from the mud. "Why don't you take a seat? Give yourself some time to clear your head?"

Kozin grated his teeth together and stubbornly turned away from the stump. The mud sucked at his boots as he marched over to the banner. Bunching a corner in his fist, he forced it down so he could read the list again. Before he could take in a single word, his eyes were filled with a blinding white light that forced his head down. Cracking thunder split the air and stabbed his ears. A cry of pain escaped the witcher's lips. It was as though that thunder had been curated just to punish Kozin's defiance.

You're not making me waste any more time, Mirror. He turned his head, peeking at the tombstones over his arm. It was then he realized he knew the identities of every grave except the last, and there was only one name left to pair it with.

The sorceress's name was carved by an invisible hand into the headstone at the very end of the row of graves. Theila—the woman he had grown to see more as his mother than the woman who had birthed him. The one who brought gave Undevar the kind of joy worth envying.

There was another clue that included her name, and it belonged on the remaining blank plaque. The sorceress's grave was completed.

Theila.

The one who inadvertently killed Bear.

The one who fears being struck by the abusive hand.

The one who remembers the face of the man looking into the eyes of his murderer.

The one who will die when hatred for Vintrica flares up.

Something wobbled in the mirror that was underneath the sorceress's name. Kozin thought he caught the sound of something—a muffled boom. An explosion coming from within the glass. The mirror gave a small shudder. Rainwater streaked down its surface, making the blurry images within it impossible to discern.

This time, Kozin stepped willfully towards the tombstone, determined to see what the completed scene had to show him. He had seen Andryk's fear. Perhaps this time he'd see something else for Theila, and his resolve to protect the sorceress pushed him forward.

He wasn't prepared for the emptiness that came with his next step. When his boot should have met the muddy ground, it didn't. Instead, it continued going down. Kozin's heart skipped a beat and his stomach plunged—the same exact feeling one had when miscounting the final step on a staircase.

And then it stopped. His foot hit solid ground… too solid. It wasn't mud. It was stone. The floor was laid with it—immaculate stone tiles. Pale bricks lined the walls, and columns rose on either side of the hall to meet at the ceiling as archways. The spacious hallway Kozin found himself in had once been beautiful.

But now it was in the process of being torn down. In the distance, he heard another explosion that shot tremors through the floor beneath him. The hallway shivered like a hurt creature, and chunks of ivory stone fell from the ceiling and smashed to chalky chunks a few feet away from where Kozin stood. His sharp ears caught screams of fear—frightened women and young girls. Angry shouts. Bellows of "Witch!" held tones of the desire for murder. Portals roared.

Kozin turned his head to the pile of rubble next to him. A leg and a bit of dress stuck out from underneath it. A runnel of blood drew a morbid, crimson line down the calf.

Another bit of rock fell and clattered onto the floor beside him. Kozin was startled back to his senses and hurried forward, reaching back instinctively for his steel broadsword. But it wasn't there. Kozin cursed, remember that he was in Gaunter's vision and the trickster had taken his weapons away. But that wasn't important—finding Theila was.

His boots sounded strange as they thundered down the stone hall. It was as though his ears were filled with cotton. They didn't sound quite right.

As he ran, Kozin saw more and more of the invasion's carnage. Dead sorceresses lay on the ground wherever he went. Wounds covered their bodies and soaked their robes. Some had been cut to ribbons by dimeritium shrapnel. Kozin scanned each of their wide-eyed, bloodstained faces, fearing to find her familiar olive eyes among the waxen skin.

Cold relief flooded him when he failed to find them. But if she wasn't here among the dead… "Theila!" Kozin shouted. The stone carried his voice.

"Iteal'ch an dagr aep ichear!" a voice boomed, as if to answer him. It was hers, deep and guttural as it drew in the power of Chaos. "Dhra'enáil beathra!" It was also strained, as though its caster was weak and struggling to enunciate her spell.

What followed was the rattling gasp of someone drawing their last breath. Then, the heavy thud of something heavy hitting the ground. Uneven footsteps scraped across the stone. A woman's haggard breathing filled Kozin's ears. Scrabbling—she stumbled. Fleshy palms hit the wall as she caught herself. The breathing grew slower.

Kozin found the wooden door the sounds came from. With a thrust of his arm, he threw it open as soon as he reached it. Dead men were scattered across the floor, their weapons lying uselessly beside them. And across the room, he saw her.

She had already sunk to the ground, her back to the wall. Her arm was wrapped over her stomach, concealing some wound but unable to hide the red creeping out from underneath. Theila was unlike Kozin had ever seen before. Her hair was matted, and her face was streaked with blood and dirt. Her dress was gone, replaced by light hide plating—armor donned for battle.

Her metal heels grinded against the stone as she pulled her legs in. A whimper escaped her lips. Her arm tightened over her stomach. Kozin ran to her. "Theila! Theila, no!" He recognized a dying person when he saw one.

The sorceress didn't react to him. Her hooded gaze swept across what to her was an empty room. Her other hand reached to something on the back of her belt. It came back up with something clutched in the fingers. A Bear medallion.

Slowly, Theila raised the medallion, her hand trembling with effort. She closed her eyes and brought the medallion to her face, pressing it to her lips. Kozin had just reached her when the Bear medallion fell with her hand. Her head dropped to the side.

"Theila!" He collapsed beside her, smashing his knees onto the cold stone. Kozin took her face in his hands, lifting it up to stare into her lifeless eyes. "Don't go! Don't leave me behind!" There was no answer. The sorceress was dead. He knew that, but he refused to listen to reason.

Then, in the next blink, she was gone. His hands held empty air. Cold rain pounded over him. The banner flapped behind him. Slowly, Kozin tightened his numb hands into fists and slammed them down onto his thighs. He saw zigzags race across the mirror on Theila's grave. Then more appeared. The mirror was torn apart with a bang and dropped as fragments into the mud.

Kozin stared at the blank spot where the mirror used to be, still seeing her dead eyes gazing back at him. Then, he closed his eyes and willed himself back to the present. He raised a hand and scraped it down his wet face. As he rose, mud rolled down his boots.

There was no taunt from Gaunter this time. He wanted Kozin to become engulfed in the misery he'd just subject the witcher too. But Kozin wouldn't give that victory to him. "Now you've made me mad," the witcher hissed, his seething eyes falling onto the remaining graves. "Look at that, Mirror. Just a few spaces left to be filled. It's a straight shot from here, and then I'll have you."

"Hmm. Better be quick then."

Jarred, Kozin thought about how much time he'd spent going through that vision of Theila. He turned back to the banner. The wind had picked it up and flipped it over itself. Kozin reached up and pulled it back down. When he did, a claw swiped at him. Instead of the list of clues, Kozin found himself confronted by a wyvern emerging from the canvas. Its gaping jaws shot out at him. With a cry, Kozin released the banner and jumped back, his hand flying back to the hilt at his shoulder. But as his fingers closed around the silver sword, the banner flapped innocently back, revealing nothing but a set of clues on its surface.

Kozin exhaled heavily, his hand still gripping the hilt. It was a trick, he realized, by Gaunter to stall for more time. Kozin had him worried, and he was pulling out at all the stops to stall him. The witcher was conquering his puzzle, so now he'd resorted to using time to get his victory.

"One fear left," Kozin said aloud, so that Gaunter could hear him. "One fear left to be matched to its grave—the center one. The one who fears the inevitable death not theirs will die in foreign lands. That's Os's grave done." As he spoke, the words appeared on Oslan's plaques, completing the headstones. "Come on then! Show me what you've got!" Kozin's voice was growing almost deranged. "Let me see the horrible things in store for my brother! That brings me all the closer to finding you, you sick fuck!"

Suddenly, the rain halted. Each drop was suspended in midair. Kozin found himself trapped in a void of stillness and silence. Then, a soft, shaky breath cut through the noiselessness. It came from behind him. As Kozin turned to investigate the source of the noise, his surroundings changed. When he had completely turned, he was standing on the far side of a bedroom. Weak light streamed through the window, resting on the two individuals at the bed. Oslan was sitting on the edge, cradling his wife.

His head was bowed to meet Arda's eyes. Words slipped from his mouth, hushed and quick like prayer. He was telling her over and over again that he loved her.

Arda looked almost the same as Kozin remembered, though grey streaks ran through her hair and age crinkled the corners of her eyes. But she looked too young, far too young, to be fading already.

"That's up to you." Gaunter's voice made Kozin jump. Something whirred softly. A spool of thread came down from the ceiling, leaving a trail of string like a spider. The spool hit the floor, but the thread remained taught. "You could let them be—spare her until her natural time comes. Or…"

Something clattered at Kozin's feet. It was a pair of scissors.

"You could end it now. It's really up to you, dear Kozin. Can you really afford to wait that long? Remember—time's a-ticking."

Kozin stared down at the scissors. Gaunter was going to hold him in this vision until he decided. And if he ran out of time…

He crouched down, reaching out for the scissors. His fingers closed in around them and lifted them up. As Kozin straightened up, he looked back at the pair. Oslan lifted a hand and delicately brushed a lock of hair away from Arda's forehead.

"You're strong, leannan. The fever won't take you. It'll pass."

Kozin closed his eyes, telling himself that he was in a vision. This wasn't real. It was a trick. A trick. A trick.

"I'm sorry, Os." He couldn't stop the words from escaping his mouth. He opened his eyes, but refused to look at his brother as he grabbed the string in his shaking fist. He couldn't breath as he brought the scissors up to the string to cut it in one fluid motion. One end dangled limply in the air while the other fell in spirals on the ground.

"… Arda?"

Kozin dropped the scissors.

"Arda… please… leannan?" He heard Oslan's voice break. "No… please… A-Ar… no… Why? Why did you take her?" His voice rose, becoming angry, confrontational. Kozin couldn't look at him. "We still had time! Why did you take her?"

The window suddenly flew open, throwing rain and wind into the room. The walls of the room peeled away, carried off by the storm. Kozin shielded his face as a gust hit him and cold rain returned to his skin. The force knocked him off balance and he stumbled. His foot caught on the fallen shovel. Mud sloshed as the witcher landed on his side, catching himself on an arm.

He lifted himself up, dragging his clean hand across his face to wipe away the mud. Glass screeched as the mirror on the headstone burst.

Oslan.

The one who turned his back on his brothers.

The one who fears the inevitable death not his.

The one who remembers watching the woman in his arms fade away.

The one who will die in foreign lands.

He knew. They all knew Oslan would eventually have to face that day. But Kozin hadn't been ready to confront it like that—with Gaunter pushing him up front and center. Making him cut the thread. He had cut the thread. Did that mean Kozin would somehow be responsible for…?

The witcher brought himself back up to his feet. Mud filled the cracks in his armor and dripped from his fingers. Kozin sloshed to Undevar's grave. He still stood a respectable distance away from the tombstone even though he was certain, certain that there was nothing underneath that plot of land in front of him. There was one empty plaque left—the death. Kozin already knew which clue belonged there. Only one from the list remained.

The one who fears degradation is buried next to the one who will lose their head to the ax.

It was the worst death he had to confront because it was so undeserved. Undevar—the man that had filled the role of a father so thoroughly. The most brave, skilled, selfless man he knew was doomed to an end that some depraved, condemned criminal ought to have.

"Perhaps it is fitting after all," Gaunter mused, once again showing his ability to help himself to Kozin's thoughts uninvited. "How well do you know your grandmaster?" The reflection in Undevar's mirror warped.

Fear suddenly seized Kozin's heart. He stepped back. "No…"

"Now, now, Kozin," Gaunter chided lightly. "Don't you back away. It's deplorable for a man to remain willfully ignorant, is it not? Come forth and learn exactly what kind of criminal Undevar is to deserve his fate. Or…"

Something bright illuminated behind Kozin, throwing his shadow over Undevar's grave. The witcher looked back and saw the seams of an arching doorway drawing itself into the air. Then, as though a curtain had been pulled aside, light spilled through from the archway.

"Take the easy way out, Kozin. You needn't subject yourself to any more torment. And you needn't let the memories of what you have seen agonize you any longer. Step through, and be free."

The light beckoned, and Kozin longed for relief from the dark visions. He had watched those closest to him suffer. He knew about the misery that awaited them all. It was a burden chained to him that he didn't want.

But if I step through, Kozin thought, I'll lose them all. Right here, right now.

The witcher turned away. "I don't suppose you've got Andryk's freedom behind that doorway?" he growled, walking away from the light. "Show me, damn it. Show me what kind of man Undevar is."

The ground beneath him suddenly swirled as though it were spinning on a plate. The air and sky changed little except now, the rain was heavier and more frequent bolts of lightning split the black clouds. Thunder cracked deafeningly and the wind pummeled his body like invisible fists.

He was standing in open air, floating. No, he was standing on the top of something. A spire. For miles around, there was nothing but the storm and the restless ocean. Out of the corner of his eye, Kozin saw movement and realized he wasn't alone.

A witcher stood next to him. The wind jostled the Bear medallion at his neck. The top half of his black hair was tied into a ponytail, and the rest of it fluttered in long, soaked locks around his neck. Though he was much, much younger, Kozin recognized his grandmaster. Undevar's eyes were focused on the drop in front of them. Kozin looked down too.

The distance between them and the water below was dizzying to look at. At what seemed like miles down, the water crashed in angry, foaming waves against the base of the spire.

A vein of lightning shot through the clouds, and almost immediately the roar of thunder followed. When the boom died down, Kozin heard talking behind him. He looked and saw a bizarre scene. What appeared to be two other people, unaffected by the rain, stood in what Kozin could only describe was a pocket of some other reality. The two stood in a blurry bubble that, within, was some sort of room. A study, perhaps. Or an office.

"… Getting in the way," a grayed, fierce-looking old witcher was saying to the other.

"What would you have me do?" the second person asked. Kozin realized it was the same man that stood next to him now—the younger Undevar.

"I want them silenced," the old witcher hissed. "When next you bring them to the spire, ensure they do not return."

Undevar looked stunned. "You would have me—?"

"Do this," the old witcher interrupted, his voice quiet and prickly. "And my seat as grandmaster is guaranteed to you." The old witcher's words were met with silence as Undevar pondered over the proposal. "You can tell the others it was an accident," the grayed witcher continued. "Sansira's Spire is a perilous place. A tragic accident would not be so out of place."

"And I will be promised the title of grandmaster?"

"That is correct."

As Undevar looked down, the bubble began fading. Kozin thought he caught a certain gleam in the witcher's eyes before they vanished.

A sharp crackle of thunder pulled Kozin back into his current surroundings. He looked around. They were standing on a spire. "Is this… Sansira's Spire?" he asked aloud. He heard the man next to him give a heavy sigh.

"I hope you will learn to forgive me."

Suddenly, Kozin's breathing was cut off as a hand brutally clutched his neck. Kozin's hands flew up to fight against Undevar's crushing grip. He looked into his grandmaster's face, catching only a glimpse of the cold determination on his face. Then, a forceful shove sent him flying over the edge of the spire. Kozin flipped, looking down at the crashing waves, and flipped again. He saw Undevar peering over the edge, watching him fall. His stomach rose to his throat as he felt the sickening feeling of free fall engulf him. He didn't know when he would hit the water. All he knew was that when he did, he—.

Kozin's body stopped falling, stopped turning over. He was on his feet, but he was heavily disoriented. The witcher tipped forward, falling onto his knees in the sludge. He gasped, drawing breath for the first time in what felt like ages.

Undevar.

The one who bent to the allure of power.

The one who fears losing the guild.

The one who remembers being left behind by a daughter.

The one who will lose their head to the ax.

"Ruthless, isn't he?" Gaunter asked, not giving Kozin time to recover. "But what's sad is that what he did wasn't necessary at all. If he wanted the grandmaster's seat so badly, all he needed to do was ask me. We could have come up with a nice little deal."

"Lies…"

"What was that?"

"Lies… all of it!" Kozin suddenly roared, raising his head. "Everything you've shown me—nothing but lies! Just fabrications you've invented to keep me from completing your puzzle! Well guess what, Gaunter? It's done!" He reached out and snatched the shovel from the mud. Rising, he pulled the shovel back and smashed its spade into Undevar's mirror before it had a chance to break on its own. "I know who dies a fool's death! I know whose grave you're hiding in! I'm coming for you, you fucker!"

Kozin stopped in front of his own grave and drove the shovel down into the soggy earth. He brought it up and flung the first clump of mud away.

"Ten."

Another shovelful. And then another.

"Nine."

A large divot formed in the ground. And still the shovel was forced through, cutting away more and more of the earth.

"Eight… Seven…"

"I know you're in there!" Kozin shouted at the hole. He jumped down and continued digging.

"Six… Five… Four…"

The spade struck something hard. It scraped against wood as Kozin cleaned away the mud on top of the coffin.

"Three…"

Frantic, desperate fingers scrabbled at the edge of the coffin lid. Finally, Kozin managed to catch the edge. He dug his fingers in and lifted.

"Two… O—."

The lid flew up, propelled by some impossibly strong force. It slammed into Kozin and knocked him back. The coffin lid landed on top of him. He shoved it aside and grabbed the edge of the coffin to pull himself back on his feet.

Kozin found Gaunter lying in the casket's padded interior, looking peaceful in slumber. Or death. His hands rested over his stomach, clutching Andryk's Bear medallion. Kozin reached down to take it back. Before he could touch it, Gaunter's eyes flew open. The hand holding the medallion snatched Kozin's wrist. The other wrapped painfully around the witcher's neck. The fingers digging into his skin felt like concrete. Gaunter effortlessly pulled the struggling witcher down until they were face to face.

Gaunter's face had changed, warped into something that made Kozin's breath catch in his throat. The skin clung to his skull like an emaciated corpse. It was chalky white enough to see the dark purple veins running through his face, as though Gaunter was suffering the effects of a witcher potion. His voice slithered from between his pale lips, oily and chilling.

"Do you feel like a victor, witcher? Do you feel like you've won?" Gaunter's black, beady eyes bore holes into Kozin's. A very real pain bubbled in his sockets. He tried closing his eyes, but some invisible power held his stare to those burning, black voids. "These things I have shown you are truths, and they will come to pass. Spend the rest of your pathetic years waiting for them to happen. Wait for your fears to come true. Are you really the victor? Then enjoy your spoils."

The pain was growing unbearable—it felt as though his eyes were about to burst. Kozin barely felt the warmth trickling down his face. Tears? His vision was growing hazy. Nausea brewed in his stomach from the pain.

Gaunter suddenly threw him away. When Kozin's back hit the ground, he didn't feel mud. The ground underneath him was firm. The rain had stopped, or… at least he didn't feel it anymore. He couldn't see the sky. He couldn't see anything.

Something groaned next to him, and then stirred. Kozin heard a weak gasp, and then a faint, "Ko?" Kozin propped himself up with one arm and waved his other hand in front of his face. He couldn't see.

"Ko, are ye—Oh, no. Ko, what happened?"

"Addie?" Kozin said. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"They're… they're bleedin', mate." Kozin gingerly touched his cheek. It was wet. "And they're bone white. What—?"

"H-he burned my eyes out," Kozin said, his voice shaky. His heart quickened with panic. "He—that fucker blinded me! I—How can I be a witcher like this? Addie!"

"Oi, mate, it's goin' te be okay." He felt Andryk's arms pull him up to a sitting position. "Listen, we'll find a mage or sorceress o-o'somethin'…"

"Theila," Kozin said.

"She here?"

"By Urialla's Harbor. With Os."

"Right. Let's get ye up then."

It took a while for them to reach Theila. Andryk wasn't faring too well himself, having been trapped in Gaunter's captivity for the past few days. Kozin tried to get his deal with the trickster out of him, but Andryk pushed the subject aside, saying, "Not now, Ko."

It was late evening when they finally returned, judging by the cooled air. There was a commotion upon their return. Andryk had come back, and something awful had been inflicted on Kozin.

The red-haired witcher brushed all their questions away, insisting that something had to be done to Kozin first. Theila had him brought into the second bedroom where she examined him.

"Someone's put a curse on his eyes," she declared, wiping the dark blood that continued to trickle slowly from the corners of Kozin's eyes. "I can reverse it, but it'll take time. And it won't be pleasant. Is there any anesthesia we can give him before I begin?"

Arda left the room to fetch medicine from the cupboards. Andryk and Oslan stood in the corner, watching the sorceress tend to their brother. Oslan turned to Andryk, but before he could say anything, the red-haired witcher demanded, "Is she still there?"

"What?"

"The nightwraith," Andryk said, distress in his amber eyes. "Is she still there?"

"Night… wraith?" Oslan repeated slowly as he thought. "Well… I heard there was one over the water… I was planning to take care of it once we found—Hey! Where are you going?"

The sails slacked, bringing the boat to a slow halt. Wood creaked as the small vessel cut through a patch of moonlight. The boat's lone occupant stepped up to the side, looking out towards the water. His eyes were focused on the figure in the distance—a figure that floated weightlessly over the ocean's dark, glassy surface. Locks of hair drifted around the figure's head, obscuring the face from view. Even then, he could tell she was looking up at the moon.

For a moment, he stood there, silently watching her, unsure of what to do. Guilt, heartache, and pain clung to his heart and weighed it down like anchors. His witcher swords, sheathed and unoiled, remained on his back even though his medallion jostled in the nightwraith's presence.

Just then, a small burst of wind picked up and tapped a rope against the mast. The bump was barely audible, but the monster caught it. Suddenly her head swiveled in an impossible rotation to point her sockets towards the boat. A shrill, unearthly shriek cut through the air as the nightwraith shot towards the boat.

She stopped right at the boat's edge, her hair blown out to reveal her skull-like face to the witcher. The torn fabric of her blouse flared from her ribs. Choked gurgles came from the ragged throat where her heavy tongue protruded.

The wraith grabbed the motionless witcher, her spindly, taloned fingers digging into his shoulders. A horrible, gargled growl emitted from her as she brought her shriveled face closer to his. Her tongue climbed towards his jaw, and then stopped. The nightwraith released him and withdrew completely.

"Andryk?" her voice, only in his mind, sounded exactly as he'd remembered her.

Trembling hands rose to hold the nightwraith's face gently. "Look at ye," the witcher whispered, his voice shaking though not from fear. "Look at what I've done te ye. I jus… I just wanted ye back. I didn't mean fer this te happen."

"Andryk." She sounded awful, on the verge of tears. "I'm cold. So cold." She held her withered hands up as though she were trying to cup the moonlight. "No warmth. Just cold."

His hands went down and hugged the nightwraith's waist, feeling her bony spine through the shredded cloth. Gently, he tugged her into the boat. "Come here, lass," he told her. He wrapped one arm over her back and used the other hand to push the wraith's head down onto his shoulder. "I told ye once, didn't I? Just latch onte me, aye? Take whatever ye need te feel whole again. Ye don't have te be cold no more."

He felt the nightwraith's arms wrap around him, and suddenly his body was seized by an icy grip. His muscles tensed, but he kept a firm hold around the nightwraith. His teeth began clattering, and the short breaths that escaped between them came out in white puffs.

Andryk's eyes drifted up to the white orb in the sky. It wavered. He felt light-headed. The cold that enveloped his body didn't feel so bad. In fact, he didn't feel much of anything… Suddenly, he found that he was no longer standing. Instead, he was slumped against the mast. Odd. He didn't remember collapsing.

The moon was out, but there was a shadow covering him. Andryk looked up to see the nightwraith hovering over him. She still had the visage of a corpse—wilted and grotesque.

He didn't understand what had happened. He thought he would've been able to… What had failed?

The loose rags that draped from the nightwraith's hip like a dress buckled and folded as she lowered herself down to him. Andryk looked into her dead face—the eyeless sockets, the jagged teeth, and the gangling tongue that twitched by her chest.

"I won't," the nightwraith told him. "I won't take you."

"But ye can't stay like this." Andryk raised a hand to her broken face. A bony hand pushed it back down.

"I felt you," she said. "When you held me, I felt you. I feel you now." Andryk looked down at the hand that was still intertwined with his. But her fingers were no longer dry and clawed. They were normal—slender and soft. He lifted his eyes and saw her bright blue ones. "I feel… happy." The blue disappeared as she closed her eyes and leaned her head onto his shoulder. Andryk saw her outline begin to slowly fade.

"Stay," he pleaded, hugging her waning form desperately. "Stay with me a little longer." She reappeared again, and raised her head to his to kiss him gently. When they parted, she placed a hand over his cheek. Her touch was warm.

"I'll wait for you," she whispered to him. "My witcher… I love you."

She was gone before the words had drifted from his mind. The night was quiet and the boat was still. He stared up at the moon, taking from his pocket the circlet that he held until the sky grew pink with the sunrise.

I'm holding out

'Til we're out of time

Would you pierce the veil

Would you cross the line

I can feel you here, souls redefined

I can't let go of our design

"Come Back to Me"—Les Friction

Addendum: Yes, I know it's been over a month. I'm hoping I can get updates out more frequently, but I can't guarantee anything. Thanks for sticking around.