Summary: The Valkyries are put to the test for the first time since the Blood Rite.

TW: Violence/fighting

"Oh no, you are not going to spar with your mate," Mor said, pointing a slender finger like a bayonet at Cassian across the training ring. "Besides the question of fairness, that situation is only leading to you both eye-fucking the enter time. Then dirty talk. Then your mating scent wafts and pollutes the fresh air to the extent I'll need to vomit."

Emerie raised her hand to agree, skipping forward to place an arm around Mor's scalloped leather shoulder. Mor lowered her face and kissed the back of her girl's hand. Finally, seeing Mor so free to love? Despite everything, Azriel was happy for her, truly.

Nesta snorted. "Oh, like you two won't be eye-fucking the entire time either?" Cassian stood tall next to his mate, powerful arms crisscrossed over his exposed chest.

"Yeah, what she said," Cassian added, shrugging when Nesta rose an elegant eyebrow at him.

Azriel glanced sidelong at Gwyn, who appeared caught between amusement and confusion. He shuffled a few strides toward her, dipping his head to whisper.

"Are you okay," he asked. Azriel had inquired frequently about Gwyn's well-being for the several weeks since the incident with Merrill. The same fucking bitch still lost in the wind. After scouring across Prythian, the Continent, and Hybern, his spies had come up empty-handed. And the unaccounted-for elder priestess only added to his irritation. Particularly given the role Gwyn had played in Merrill's scheme. "Gwyn?"

"Hmm?" She blinked, rolling her shoulders. "Nothing, it's just," Gwyn crooked her finger at him and he leaned his head closer until her breath warmed tickled the shell of his ear. "Do we look like that? When we look at each other?"

Azriel followed her darting eyes to Cassian and Nesta, who were exchanging glances, ensuring plenty of vigorous activity after the extra practice. Mor and Emerie were less obvious, their subtle, playful grins hiding secrets from all else except each other, but there was no way to cover the affection.

Gwyn tilted her head, her gleaming copper hair sweeping his cheek in a feather-soft caress, and he fought the impulse to kiss the top of her head. Since Gwyn discovered the note in Merrill's office, things had taken a few steps back. They often filled the nights with the sound of clashing blades and of fists meeting the training dummies. And Az was more than content to be her partner.

Her nightmares were back in full force, causing her to stumble up the stairs to the House in the dead of night. His shadows wrapped around her in encouragement. Even the most potent sleeping drafts concocted by the healers seemingly did nothing. What killed him was she didn't want comfort, even as she shivered like a leaf. Gwyn didn't want him to touch her. And that? Well…

"Shadowsinger?" Gwyn's question made him refocus on the pair of lovers across the circle ahead of them.

He presented the young priestess a lazy half-smile. Azriel was keeping it loose, cheerful, not wanting to darken her morning with his anguished, maddening thoughts. To not be intimidating. Yet another mask, he recognized, one he wore only for her. "The better question is how do you feel, priestess, when I look at you?"

'A flirtation hid within playful banter. Perfection, Shadowsinger.'

Her brows shot up. "In the bedroom or…?"

He casually lifted and dropped his shoulder, "Anytime."

Gwyn's eyes focused on her boots, her nose wrinkling as she thought. Cauldron, it shouldn't be that hard to answer... should it? Had he kept his false face on so tight that even the girl he adored didn't understand what he was trying to say without words?

'The Priestess is wondering if she missed something, Shadowsinger.'

"You have looked at me like that before," she whispered. "The times in the bedroom and the library…" She laughed a little, her bright wide smile easing the tension in his chest. "But it's like our precious secret. I think I like it that way. Knowing that view is mine alone."

And every private one was entirely hers. Every lingering glance her way, where his heart skittered along with his shadows. The glimpses where she shared a teasing challenge, where he'd wanted her to pummel him at sparring if only to let her pin him up against the wall. But he'd stopped himself from sending any coy intentions her way since the event in the library. Because of the renewed nightmares and the tie to Calanmai - a situation Rhsyand was working on dismantling - they had put their intimate relationship on hold.

"Fine. No, mate-on-mate or couple-on-couple sparring," Cassian grumbled, smacking his mate's ass with a resounding, solid whack over the leather. "Nesta, babe, you're with Emerie." The eldest Archeron turned to warn her sister with an impish smile that even had Azriel's smiles slithering behind his wings for comfort. "Mor, you're with Gwyn."

Nesta angled back to her mate, "And we're supposed to get anything accomplished with you and Azriel sparring together? Because I can tell you if it's the two of you sparring shirtless? That won't happen."

All the girls nodded in accord, even if the shyest one, Gwyn's, was a bit more reserved.

Cassian put his hand on his waistline and lifted his face to the thankfully warm autumn sunlight. "Fine. Azriel and I will just help correct your techniques. Good?"

With all the girls satisfied with the General's answer, they got into their stances.

Cassian strode to Azriel's side. "Wanna make a bet? I bet Emerie wins."

"Isn't that against some sort of mystical law to wager against your own mate?" Azriel humphed as he crammed his hands in the pockets of his leathers. "Not counting the fact that you have the inside knowledge, or you think you have inside knowledge, of how tired your mate is. Which for the other person in the House, and with how piercing her screaming was last night and how loud you were telling her to keep fucking you until the early hours of the morning? She's tired."

Cassian chuckled darkly. "Yeah, well…" And he ended that conversation with a shrug, turning their attention to the sparring ahead. Hand-to-hand combat. Nesta versus Emerie. In theory, Emerie had the advantage because of various... reasons. And Nesta's expertise was swordplay. But still…

"I'll take Nesta," Azriel whispered, his competitiveness giving in to his brother's ridiculousness.

Grinning wickedly, his brother jutted his chin to where Mor had made her first move. Gwyn had waited, another technique she'd picked up from himself during their late-night training. Mor always left her left side vulnerable no matter the combat. Something about almost five hundred years of training hadn't been extinguished.

"I'll take Gwyn."

"I'm sure you would." Cassian nudged Azriel with his elbow, rocking him.

Mor went in with a jab to the right, which Gwyn expected. Ducking low, the priestess delivered a hook to the left ribs. Mor stumbled back, swearing while the young priestess stood frozen as the Sidra in winter. Waiting. Stalking.

"She moves like you now, Az."

Gwyn lunged into another attack, feinting high and going to kick low, only for Mor to read her. Sand puffed up as Gwyn's back slammed down hard enough to feel it under Azriel's boots.

Cassian snorted. "She's not nearly as patient, though."

Gwyn whisked the sand off her rear, which truthfully stung as much as her pride. Mor brushed back some strands that looked like liquid gold that had escaped her tight braid. Her red lips twisted in a smirk. Yes, even sparring, she was wearing lipstick.

The Morrigan, the only other who was fully aware of what had transpired at Sangravah. Who had winnowed Gwyn, clad only in the shadowsinger's cloak, to safety. The one who had taken her to the healer to be examined. Mor, who had stood by Gwyn's side, offering her support as the priestess gagged down the bitter contraceptive tea as... a precaution.

The opponents struck, crashing into each other in the middle. Mor swept low with a kick, which Gwyn anticipated, jumping over the leg to deliver a high kick to Mor's shoulder. Off-balance, Mor stumbled back and Gwyn jabbed into her right bicep, her lead punching arm. Then another to her right ribs and another until Mor retreated, her hands up.

"Gods, I am really… out of… practice," the gorgeous blonde gasped out, as she took a seat on the sand.

"Well, it's a good thing you are practicing with us then," Gwyn said, offering her a hand. Yanking her to her feet, Gwyn gave a soft smile of apology.

Mor laughed in a husky and warm tone, reminding Gwyn of honey. "You're fast." Gwyn smiled, nodding a little. "And," she leaned in closer, grabbing Gwyn by the shoulders and putting her in a headlock from behind. "I'm thrilled for you and Azriel."

What a weird thing to say right now, Gwyn mused as she gripped Mor's forearms, doing her best to pull them off and relieve pressure on her throat.

"Honestly, no one is happier to see Azriel acting so...open." This was the Shadowsinger's version of open, Gwyn asked herself, searching for him, his brows drawn down as his lips twitched at something ridiculous Cassian said. "You make him laugh. You push him beyond his comfort zone, Gwyn. I honestly haven't seen Az this content in... Cauldron, I don't know how long it's been."

"That so?" Gwyn grunted and flung her upper body forward, tossing Mor over her until the blonde was sprawled on the ground in front of her. "How long?"

Gwyn stood, fists ready as Mor laughed, rolling onto her back. The priestess stared at her, perplexed.

"I haven't seen him smile this often since around the time I was seventeen."

Something inside Gwyn's chest jolted, compelling her hand to rest over her beating heart. "You—you haven't seen him smile in over four hundred years?"

Mor groaned as she pushed off the sand, forcing herself to her feet. Brushing the grime from her leathers, she revealed, "It's a rarity. A laugh or a grin from Azriel? It's a gift. But you?" She smirked at her, and there was something wistful in her gilded eyes. "You bring that out of him. And it makes me very happy that you two found each other. Especially after what I did to him—"

Did to him? Gwyn was going to inquire until she noticed Mor's radiant eyes go wholly void. Peering over her shoulder, Gwyn found Cassian and Azriel entranced in the same distant stare.

"Incoming," Cassian shouted.

"Who," Emerie asked, wiping at a cut under her eye as she and Nesta approached. Nesta remained blood-free.

"Rhys," Mor answered, as the two Illyrians joined the group. "He said to get ready. Something is going on and Rhysand needs us all."

Needs us? Her eyebrows shot up in surprise as the High Lord of Night dropped into the rooftop, wearing Illyrian leathers as if he was…

"What's up, Rhys," Cassian said, securing his leather jacket after he had apparently located his shirt. "And why are you wearing your leathers?"

Violet-eyes bored into each of them as he surveyed the troops. "They have breached wards at two temples."

"Which ones," Cassian asked Nesta as he handed her a sword, helping her prepare.

"Cesere." Rhysand's vibrant amethyst darkened, affixing on Gwyn as he continued. "And Sangravah."

A shiver raced up her spine at the name. Sangravah. She felt Azriel step closer to her side.

"But Sangravah... and Cesere are both abandoned," Azriel said, his tone dark and flat. A deep crease developed on the shadowsinger's forehead. "Why the hell would anyone go to either of those?"

Good question. After the raids by Hybern, presented the opportunity to rebuild their peace by Rhysand, the temples were deserted. Treated now more as shrines to honor their dead. And there had been many at Sangravah. But not nearly as many as Cesere, where no one was spared. Gwyn swallowed around the rising lump.

Rhys stood like a steady pillar in the middle of their group, a true High Lord. "I don't know why, but it's too much of a coincidence that two are being hit at once. And that this is all occurring right after the Merrill incident. Cass, I want you, Emerie, and Gwyn to come with me. Mor, I want you to go with Azriel and Nesta."

Cassian stepped forward. "I want Nesta with me."

"Having your mate with you is a distraction—" Rhysand started before Cassian snarled.

"Wondering if my mate is okay is more so. I want her with me."

Rhysand clicked his tongue. "Fine, General. You, Nesta, and Gwyn come with me. We're going to Cesere. Az, Mor, and Emerie, you're going to Sangravah. Mor and I can be the go-between to winnow either location in case the other needs help—"

"No," Gwyn interrupted the High Lord, causing all of them to turn her way. She swallowed down her fear, set her shoulders back, and lifted her chin. For she was the rock, and nothing could break her. Not her fear. Not her past. Not Merrill. Not anyone or anything. And wasn't this a giant step to prove to herself just that? "I want to go to Sangravah."

Silence covered the rooftop as Azriel's shadows rapidly whizzed around the huffing shadowsinger's wings.

"No."

What in the ever fucking hells of….

What the fuck was she doing?

What the fuck was she thinking?

Absolutely fucking not.

'Shadowsinger…' His shadows barrelled around his wings, their worries, and warnings a discordant hum.

"No?" Gwyn asked, her tone mocking. She crossed her arms over her chest after arming herself with two daggers. He grabbed her by the arm with a light grip as she walked by to choose a sword.

"No. You're not going to Sangravah."

"Is that so, Shadowsinger?"

"Yes, it is."

Teal eyes cut deep into him. "Well, it's a good thing you don't decide for me then." She shook off his hold, walking over to Rhysand's side after she was fully armed. "I'm going. I need to go. I know every nook and cranny in there, including the catacombs. "If there is anyone there, I'll find them and take care of them."

Visions of a red-headed priestess strewed upon a table in a warmly lit room. Men around her waiting their turn as if she was some sort of amusement. Laughing men.

For the first time in so many years, Azriel's mask collapsed in a devastating crash. He snarled and growled at his High Lord.

"Azriel," Nesta yelped as Cassian wrapped an arm around her waist, holding onto his mate. To defend her friend's honor.

"Rhysand," Azriel brought his attention to his High Lord, his brother, who should have his back. "You know this a bad idea—"

Rhys sent him a death glare of warning. "Don't play it this way, Az. You will regret it in more ways than you think. Trust me on this."

Azriel crossed his arms over his chest, the leather creaking. The shadows pulsated around him. "I'm not winnowing her there."

In reality, he was not capable of this. Couldn't stand himself if he had to take her back there. And what if she fell apart? Especially now, after the resurrection of the nightmares. He couldn't...

"I'll winnow her," Mor stepped up beside Gwyn. Her aureate gaze found his and everything in him demanded to yell betrayer. And wasn't it an ironic fucking kick to the balls to have Mor be the one to side with Gwyn over him? "She needs to go, Az. Trust me. She needs to do this for closure."

"Oh, because you've visited the border of the Autumn Court for closure? Do you sip tea now with Eris? What do you know about closure, Morrigan?"

Mor flinched. Actually flinched at his words and Emerie came to her, weaving their fingers together and scowling at Azriel as if she'd never met him before. That's because this one, the one breaking through the carefully crafted disguise, was one he saved for his private apartment. To his own room. To the Hewn City.

'Shut up, Shadowsinger,' his shadows scolded and warned, now in unison. 'Your anger is too high for your mouth to be of use except to do more harm!'

Darkness shot out from the High Lord in gusty swirls of unending night.

"That's enough, Azriel," Rhysand ordered in an ominous voice that brokered no argument. The power reverberated around them, the authority of the High Lord, the tone so close to imposing his will upon them all. "She's going to Sangravah."

Regardless of the show of strength, Azriel stepped forward, his shadows expanding, his darker ones chuckling, mingling amongst Rhys's tendrils of twilight as the shadowsinger fought against them. "If anything happens to her, Rhys, it's on you."

"Stop it!" Gwyn stepped between the two of them like a sentinel. "Azriel, I don't know why you're acting like such a... an asshole."

His shadows tittered in amusement as they eddied over his shoulders.

'The priestess called you an asshole.' Followed by more hilarity.

'I have ears, thanks.'

'Just checking, Shadowsinger, because you have not been listening to the lovely Priestess.'

So Azriel listened. The azure eyes staring back were like whirlpools. Churning and ruthless, towing him in. "I'm going, and if anything happens, it'll be my fault for not doing my job. Now," Gwyn stepped to Mor, holding her palm out so Mor could take it. "We're wasting time. So, the question is, are you going to join us, Shadowsinger?"

Azriel stood there and stayed firm, his eyes flashing between the merciless glare of his High Lord and the headstrong, prideful, searching gaze of his female.

'Not just a female,' his shadows reminded him. 'Our Valkyrie.'

Shit.

Because he had little recourse. Because he could not bear the thought of her leaving without him. Az stalked forward, put out a hand, which Gwyn took without hesitation. His siphons flared a blazing bright cerulean at her touch. And suddenly they were on their way to the absolute last place he or the priestess should be going.

Even in the obscurity of winnowing, she'd known when they approached. Fresh pine and water lilies saturated the whirling air as the world starting settling back into place around them. The music of trilling birds harmonized with the gentle whoosh of leaves in the wind.

When Gwyn was a child, Sangravah seemed enchanted. To Catrin and herself, it was a mystical sanctuary. Tranquil. Safe. Home. A beautifully wonderful place to grow up. Well, until…

As ground solidified beneath her feet, a rough hand crushed hers to the extent she was positive her fingertips were turning white. In the silent signal, there was so much. Azriel's strength. An apology. His anxiety; and she perceived it was not just for her. He preferred they not go, didn't wish either of them to relive that infamous day three years ago.

She squeezed back, her thumb smoothing over the taut wrinkles on the backside of his hand. Up and over the smoothness of his siphon.

Regardless of what he said, and trust her, they were going to have words about his overprotectiveness; she knew in her heart every word broke from a place of tangled fears.

Together. They would confront the past headlong together.

As one, they landed with their weapons at the ready. The same trio who had fled together after Hybern.

But as she went to follow Mor, she found herself hauled backward. Firm yet tender hands clutched her shoulders. Azriel rested his forehead against hers.

"Stay alert and focused, Valkyrie."

Her heart jumped. Valkyrie—not Priestess today. As if he finally saw where she was coming from, why she wouldn't back down.

"I know."

With a hard smash of his lips to her forehead, he started towards Sangravah. Gwyn caught up to Mor as they dashed through the dense brush and woods outside of the secluded temple.

When it finally came into view, Gwyn's throat constricted and her eyes burned. Only three years and the wilderness had engulfed much of the exterior. Ivy and white blossoms climbed up the ancient stone, like moss on a tomb. And wasn't that was Sangravah had become? The ashes of her fellow priestesses, her sister, were spread near to here. And—

Azriel stopped ahead, raising his hand in a motion to stop.

Gwyn and Mor crouched low as Azriel did the same up ahead. The shadowsinger spoke so low neither she nor Mor could discern the words, but his shadows shot ahead of them towards Sangravah. Why…

A dark form passed by a paneless window. The library, Gwyn thought. But why? The priestesses brought the books to Velaris after being rescued. The only items left behind were of the fallen and anything the priestesses shed. There was nothing of value for an opportunist.

Something crashed from inside the temple. At once, Azriel's shadows slithered to his side, climbing to confide in his ear. Once more, he lifted a scarred hand and held up four fingers.

"Four of them," Mor said, her eyes narrowing. "Not as bad as I thought."

Gwyn smirked, readying her weapon, choosing her sword over her daggers. Unsheathing the perfectly balanced Illyrian steel. As Azriel left at a clip, almost as if he was trying to take care of them before they'd even get there, the priestess said, "Let's go."

"Gwyn, if anyone comes at you with a weapon, defend yourself however necessary."

Nodding, they both ran after Azriel, who had already slipped into the shadows. The clang of steel against steel followed by a gurgle had Gwyn rushing through the main entrance of the temple with zero hesitation.

Azriel stood in the main hallway, a body with his throat slit ear-to-ear, the blood pooling beneath his head, eyes open and void. Dead.

The hazel eyes of the Illyrian warrior were waiting for her.

"Azriel," she shouted as a male appeared behind him. As he spun to the side, Gwyn switched her sword to her opposite hand and grabbed her dagger. Aiming, she sent it flying. It struck true between two ribs in the mid-left torso, the blood spreading through his tunic as his sword clattered to the ground.

As Azriel was about to dispatch him permanently, Mor cried out.

They turned, finding her battling two males in the main hallway, at a part where it narrowed. Gwyn rushed to her. Her sword met a male, and she kicked out until his back met the stone wall. Snarling, she swung her arms in an arc, aiming for the exposed neck. His sword opened up and fended off the blow far enough for him to reach her stomach with his boot.

As she stumbled back, she regrouped with her sword and tried to match her opponent hit for hit. She saw it then. A weakness. She feinted left. Then right. Then left again. He was slow, too stiff, and absolutely no match for her speed. His sword was too heavy. In frustration, he hoisted the weapon high to deliver a death blow straight down in the tight corridor. As his arms went up, Gwyn slid on the ground and her sword entered upwards, striking the heart under the ribcage.

His mouth gaped open and shut like a fish, blood coming up with every struggle to inhale. He slumped down—and didn't get back up.

Her first kill. Not by a beast. Not by craftiness. But by her own blade. By her hand. And she didn't know how to—

"Gwyn, we need to help, Az," Mor yelled, her opponent lying in a contorted heap. They stepped over the limbs of the attacker the priestess—no, the Valkyrie—had killed, and ran to help Azriel. The shadowsinger was battling six opponents. Six? Hadn't the shadows determined merely five…

Mor's eyes were glazed over. "Shit," the blonde whispered, twisting to Gwyn as the priestess struck down the seventh, darting from one of the open doorways to Azriel's back. "I have to leave, Gwyn."

"What," the priestess barked out, her arms thrusting forward, the tip of her sword red from the wound as she pulled back. Azriel was down to three opponents now."Another temple is being raided. Bramoul. Rhysand and the others already fled Cerese and are on their way there."

Bramoul. The second largest only to the High Temple. And full of priestesses.

Gwyn shifted back to Azriel, who was down to two adversaries. "Go," she told Mor, "Go help and I'll remain with Azriel."

Mor nodded, smiling slightly as if she knew a secret Gwyn did not, and departed.

Turning her full attention to the shadowsinger, Gwyn found him... gone. She chased the harsh grunts and clanging of ore down the central corridor. Abruptly, another male advanced in front of her and she thrust her sword forward into him before he could make a move. Before he even had a chance to surrender, Gwyn realized, to her horror.

Shaking her thoughts, Gwyn forged on, scanning each wide doorway to the dorms, the library, all shrouded in pollen. Ivy crept in through the ruined windows, and dust hovered in the sifted sunlight from the fractured roof.

There. Azriel was right ahead, only one more room, and she rushed to him…

Pain lanced her left shoulder and head as her body made the acquaintance of the stone. As her hair stirred in the current of the arcing blade, Gwyn ducked. Rolling out of the way. Popping up behind the aggressor. Her grip met the back of his head, which she promptly smashed against the wall again. And again. And again. Until he slipped down the now painted rock, lifeless.

Just two more steps to the door, she told herself through the pounding in her skull.

To Azriel.

One.

Two.

Her eyes widened in terror as Gwyn entered the room.

'There were a few over six. Thank you for the underestimate,' Azriel chided his shadows, as he withdrew Truth-Teller from the throat of what had to have been the fifteenth...no sixteenth male he'd killed.

'They winnowed in once you entered, Shadowsinger.'

Meaning, most likely, someone or something was warned. However, many of these males were not capable of winnowing in on their own. So someone moved them here. But for to what end?

'We take one alive,' Azriel said. 'Find any alive and bind them until I make my way back.'

The shadows bobbed and streaked off.

Azriel turned towards the doorway when agony pulsed from his left wing. Suddenly, there was another quick flick and snap. As he staggered back, a secretion exuded from a wound in his thigh. Burning. His skin felt as though it was set ablaze. Ash arrows and faebane, he discerned, too late. But this faebane was something strange. It soaked into his veins like liquid fire, bringing back memories of the intense anguish he experienced when his hands were ignited.

He was powerless to move through the shock.

A death blow was coming, and he was paralyzed to stop it. And Gwyn…

He did his best to lift his sword to block…The sharp tip of a sword jutted through the besieging male's front, straight through his heart and lung. With a grunt, he tumbled forward to his death. Gwyn held where the male once stood. An avenging Valkyrie. Even with her plaited copper snagged and disheveled like a junk box of tangled ribbons. And freckled face and hands splattered in blood. And yet she was the most glorious creature Az had ever seen.

A tender smile adorned her pink lips as her eyes met his. She took one step forward. Then her body jerked. Her mouth dropped open as she glanced down at her right side. To the steady flood of scarlet.

"No!" Azriel stumbled forward against the strain and burn as Gwyn howled, her legs going out. As she lurched forward to her knees, her attacker crawled across the musty ground to complete what he started. Growling with the ferocity of a ferocious beast, the shadowsinger rose between them and slammed Truth-Teller down to the hilt into the man's skull.

The suffering moan of his priestess drew him to her, as her trembling hand sought to contain the wound. While blood exuded between her fingers, she pressed her lips tightly together, staunching a scream.

"Gwyn," he said, his voice thick, wavering as he knelt by her side, evaluating her injury. "It's okay. It's going to be okay, Priestess. I promise—" His words ended on a yelp as the faebane worked through to his fingers, the internal inferno convulsing them into tight fists.

"Az." She gulped. "It... real—really hurts," Gwyn gritted out through clenched teeth, wincing as tears slipped free. "Burning."

"I know. I know." He lifted her hand just enough, and he swallowed a gasp as she cried out. His eyes watched as blue shone amongst the thick red. The coated dagger in the limp, pale hand beside them.

Faebane.

Fuck. This wasn't good.

Glancing down to his thigh, he finally noticed the blood seeping from the gash; the damage created by a laced ash arrow he'd yanked from his thigh.

He tried to send out a godsdamn distress signal to Rhys. Nothing.

When Azriel tried to maneuver his wings, pain ricocheted along his spine, blazing like acid through his veins.

He couldn't contact Rhys.

He couldn't winnow.

He couldn't fly.

To Azriel's utter horror, he realized they were on their own until someone came for them.

I'M SORRY! I'll have the next chapter up in the next few days.