It was Lilen, no doubt about that. No one else could be as sly and vicious as she was. Kamarile would have made herself known from the start. Graendal liked people to know that she was the brain behind the operation, although she usually used her pets to announce her presence.

Moghedien had somehow managed to gather both the Asha'man – the rogue ones, anyway – and some of the other remaining Dreadlords – women of the Black Ajah, presumably. There were hundreds of them; it was difficult to estimate how many exactly, what with all the smoke and body parts flying around. They were outnumbered. If not for the Amyrlin's sa'angreal and the three former Chosen's presence, they would have been crushed early on.

Demandred's camp had been plunged into chaos when they emerged from the multiple gateways that Genhald held open for them. The Sharan officers had been informed that they were about to switch sides, but no one had warned them to expect an attack before their saviour returned.

Demandred's Sharan non-channelers had been relocated – they would be useless here, except possibly as cannon fodder – and the female Ayyad had tried to join in the fight, but they had been ordered to find Cauthon and Logain for further instructions, just as they had discussed earlier. It would have been too risky to commit all their channelers to the present fight. Graendal could show up at any moment and lead an assault somewhere else. And there were still the endless hordes of Shadowspawn to take into account.

They had agreed that forming a large circle, as Demandred had done when he'd joined the battlefield with his Sharans, would only hinder them. There were too many positions to defend; they had to spread out. Al'Vere had kept her artefact to herself and was laying waste on the enemy on her own, while each man had been attributed two Aes Sedai to link with and was doing likewise in other areas of the battlefield.

Natael was fighting a group of Shadow-Turned Asha'man with his two appointed Aes Sedai, a White and a Grey, women whose names he didn't even know. There were more circles, of course. The other Aes Sedai had been ordered to link by twos or threes. Incredibly enough, the Amyrlin had agreed that the one-time Chosen should lead their respective circles. They were, after all, more experienced, and they knew Moghedien better than anyone else – though that still wasn't much more than anyone else, admittedly.

They had to locate Moghedien amongst the multitude of Dreadlords. Once the Spider was dealt with, the rest of her ragtag army would likely disperse. It was easier said than done, however. The sneaky minx had always been skilled at disguising herself and posing as someone else. Natael was certain that she must have spent hours studying the rest of the Chosen to assimilate their mannerisms and speech characteristics in the event that she needed to impersonate them.

It felt like they had been fighting for days, although Natael knew from the position of the sun that it couldn't have been more than two or three hours. Even channeling through the circle, he was exhausted. Taim was engaged in battle not far from his position; from the glimpses Natael caught of the man's face, his strength was failing as well. Unless Moghedien was dealt with soon, they would be forced to retreat.

Suddenly, Taim went down on his knees. Natael didn't see what hit him, but instead of getting back to his feet, the Saldaean slid slowly to the ground. Cursing, Natael made his way toward the other man, heedless of his linked Aes Sedai's warning cries as oncoming fireballs crashed around him. Natael released the women from the circle, but they followed him regardless. He enclosed himself in a protective ward made of Air as he dashed toward the injured M'Hael, but he could feel his strength dwindling rapidly, now that he wasn't linked any longer. Fatigue was taking over.

Taim was unconscious by the time Natael crouched down beside him. His breathing was shallow and difficult; his dark, handsome face was ashen. He seemed to have lost a lot of blood already, from a wound to his chest. Natael had never gotten the hang of Delving or Healing, so he turned to Taim's Aes Sedai.

Apparently, they had already linked with the two women who had been fighting alongside Natael. They were keeping offensive weaves away from them. "Get him out of here," one of Taim's pair told him sharply. "We'll hold this position."

Taim had to be taken to Neya straight away. If the man died… Darkness within! Natael had forgotten about their blasted bond. There was no telling what Neya would do if Taim died, but he wasn't eager to find out. Without another glance at the Aes Sedai, he weaved a gateway to the Healing tent, which had been set up in haste at the main camp.

Neya was exhausted.

Nothing could have prepared her for this, not even the battle at Dumai's Wells. There were countless wounded, and very few Healers here, on the battlefield. It couldn't have been more than two or three hours since Neya's men had left, but already several Yellow Aes Sedai had been forced to retire to rest.

They were only taking care of the most "important" patients, as Mat had so tactfully put it – channelers, generals and captains, the occasional Healer. The rest of the wounded were sent to Mayene. Even then, Neya and her colleagues were overwhelmed.

Mat had insisted that Neya herself could not waste her energy on fixing minor injuries, or even major ones, should they not prove fatal. She had to save up her strength in case someone essential was harmed.

What an utter woolhead her brother had become. Who was he to decide who was essential or not? Was Gawyn Trakand's life truly worth more than that of a merchant-turned-soldier, or a farmwife who'd decided to march to war with her husband? Blood and ashes, every life was precious! She felt incredibly guilty that she had to prioritise.

There was nothing Neya could do about Gawyn Trakand, in any case. She had no idea what was wrong with him, and he'd been brought in to her unconscious. Neya wondered how Egwene managed to fight on, being bonded to him. Her friend had to know that her Warder was in terrible shape – that he was dying, really. Neya dared not imagine how Egwene would react when the Andoran prince inevitably passed away.

The Dedicated Androl Genhald had been put in charge of coordinating the gateways to and from the different places where fighting was underway, but the amount of people who were brought in after the surprise attack on the Sharan camp – my camp, Neya thought miserably – was enough to submerge all available Healers, here as well as in Mayene.

Mat had allowed the Ayyad to be Healed here, as well as several high-ranking officers, only for them to be sent back to the battlefield as soon as they were able. Others had been sent to Mayene. The rest – the fatally injured, the ones Neya was not permitted to Heal lest it depleted her strength entirely in a matter of minutes – were left to die, plain and simple.

They seemed to understand that she couldn't Heal them all. She'd done what she could for them – comforting words, a soothing balm for the pain, a sleeping potion – but she'd seen the look in their eyes. They forgave her. They had known that, if they followed Bao, their prophesised Wyld, some of them would die, and they accepted it. The Sharans had a strength in them that Neya could never hope to match, though she would try her best to emulate them, to honour their memory. She couldn't be their queen, not now that she'd betrayed Bao, but she would play her part in the Last Battle, and the Light would be victorious. There could be no other outcome. She would not allow her people's sacrifice to be in vain.

Suddenly, a sharp pain flared in her chest, so intense that Neya had to sit down, feeling faint. For a moment, she thought that she had been stabbed, but quickly realised that Mazrim's mind had gone numb through the bond – number than before, in any case. He was unconscious, and severely injured.

She had to get to him. She lurched to her feet, staggering but intent on demanding that Androl took her to the battlefield right this instant.

Jasin appeared as Neya was approaching the gateway platform, physically holding Mazrim. The front of his shirt was nearly black with blood. She ran toward them and crouched next to Mazrim as Jasin awkwardly laid him down on the ground.

"I'm sorry," Jasin muttered darkly. "I didn't know enough Healing to help. Might have killed him instead." He sat down abruptly – or rather fell on his arse – looking drained. Behind him, the gateway wobbled, then vanished with an odd popping sound, like a bursting bubble. Jasin gasped softly.

Neya spared him a glance, despite the obvious urgency of Mazrim's condition. "Are you alright?" He nodded mutely, his dark eyes wide, and gestured for her to focus on Mazrim.

She wanted to thank him for bringing Mazrim back to her so quickly, but she couldn't afford the distraction. Mazrim's wound was worse than she had imagined. She put a hand on his chest to Delve him, but their bond snapped at that very moment.

It felt as if a part of her soul had been ripped away from her. Her heart shattered, her lungs collapsed. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. The world faded out of focus. Jasin stumbled toward her, asking what was wrong, but she heard him as though from a great distance.

She wanted to howl and cry. She wanted to find the person who had done this to him – to her – and tear every limb from their body. She wanted to bury herself in a deep hole in the ground and sleep forever. She wanted to join Rand at Shayol Ghul and demand that the Dark One bring Mazrim back to her.

In the end, she did none of that.

Two thoughts crossed Elan's mind as the True Power wracked his body.

Until the next Turning of the Wheel, then, Lews Therin.

And you, Neya. There should always be one like you.