Author's Note: Here's a short part before the final slope. Sorry for the delay.

• • •

Dreams are either a form of delusion or a message from beyond. They can hold sweet and sour in the same sequence, and they can reveal the darkest parts of the mind. Love also does these things.

So, in truth, either of these entities could explain why two beasts awoke and felt drawn into the darkness of Mossflower.

• • •
The clearing was lit by the flow of moonbeams from the full lunar plate.

Liz emerged from the foliage, wary of every shadow, a tentative twitch in her movements.

"I knew you would come," a familiar voice said. The weasel, Mark, sat on large stone in the middle of the clearing. "I mean, I don't know how I knew...I just felt that...I'm not..."

"A dream?" Liz said. There was so much she wanted to say other than that. So much wanted to flow from her mouth. She was a squirrel. It was strange how saying that did not feel so surreal now, strange that she had to remind herself that bushy tail had not always followed her, that this all was a fictitious world.

Or was it?

"Do you know how we can get back?"

"Have you had a rough time?"

Liz's whiskers twitched. Of course she was having a rough time, everything was...was... There was a white canvas where the roughness of these days was to be drawn, and Liz couldn't figure what to draw.

No, she wanted to get back to her life. Or she should want to go back. Either way… "Mark. You got us here. Get us back."

"I got us here?" the weasel snapped, his teeth glinting. "You said you didn't care. That what we were wasn't real. That there is no such thing as love. That..."

Liz wanted to dart away, like the first time she had seen the weasel, through the trees as a red blur. She made herself stay; she sat next to who she knew was Mark.

"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant."

"What i did /I you mean?" Mark said, sounding more curious than angry now, as if the apology had released him.

"You know, after all this, I can't really remember."

"I'm sorry too," Mark sighed.

"For what?"

"I really can't remember either."

They looked at each other, eye to eye, maw to maw, vermin and goodbeast.

"You know, you're pretty cute still," Mark commented.

"Look who's talking, fuzzy."

They both grinned, realizing how crazy this really was, how they had traveled all this way and not come to terms with the madness.

Then the shadows grabbed Liz from behind.

• • •

As the vermin attempted to get a grip on Liz, a stoat, Ripear, came up to Mark and patted him on the back.

"Great job, Flinchy," Ripear said. "You distracted her long enough for us to come in. Should have told us about the kidnapping, though. We were on a scouting mission in the area."

"Wha—?" Mark didn't know what to say. This wasn't expected, he would never do this, he couldn't, what was happening?

"Mark..." Liz whimpered.

"What were you and the treemouse talking about, anyway?" Ripear asked, mischief in his voice. "Sounded interesting, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"Oh yes, interesting." All Mark wanted to do now was stab something through that stoat's throat.

A lance did that for him.

A rat holding down Liz was transfixed between the eyes; the same fate met a stoat.

A lance skimmed the fur on Mark's cheek. He snapped out of his daze from seeing the bloody death of Ripear, and he saw the troop of otters moving into the clearing. What they saw was a weasel left standing.

Mark scrambled for the trees, more lances skimming past, and he could hear Liz screaming something. He made it to the brush, but the lances kept coming. Moving on all four paws, he went further away from the clearing. He didn't know how far he had gotten; he was in a panic—what had happened?

Two paws reached down and pulled him up, paws tight around his throat. It was Velaren, grinning a horrible grin.

The sounds of beasts yelling filled the night.

"Time's up, weasel."