The hunter cut each step closer to the crow in an oppressive advance. Though they knew their relentless pace would lead to exhaustion, they still heaved the blade forward, throwing their body into each swing. The crow's sword, light and quick, could weave between the blows but not fully block them; the teeth of the saw often snapped past the thin blade. Still, the knight was agile enough to slip away from the serration when it bit too closely.

They couldn't lead this dance forever; the hunter needed to goad the crow to the side. With the pop of a clasp, the saw swung out long, striking out straight overhead. The crow ducked and lunged to the left, avoiding the predicted arc of the spear— but that was the opening the hunter had been seeking. Their arm pulled back, the blade refolded over their shoulder, and the blunderbuss was fired from their hip.

They didn't aim. At this range, they didn't need to. The wad of scrap punched out of the gun and flecked the air with metal embers. They were rewarded with a grunt from the knight and the sight of holes singed into the crowfeather garb.

The resulting elation was short-lived. Alarm spiked through them. The crow was advancing unhindered. The saw spear was still angled back over the hunter's shoulder, overextended in recovery, and their muscles strained as they pulled the blade back down. The crow's sword thrusted forward, angling for their gut; the falling saw spear knocked it aside artlessly. That was one strike averted, but another would come. The saw spear, made heavy with momentum, was now dropping too low, leaving the hunter open until they corrected course. They tensed and pulled up their elbow and brought the broad blade flat against their belly as a shield, expecting the next slash of the sword to knock against it.

Weight slammed into the metal and their breath fled them. A bruise was surely blooming plum across their ribs where the handle had pushed hard against bone. Quicksilver dribbled down the surface of the saw spear in two thick trails. The blade had caught the shot, but the impact had winded them. They had no time to breathe— they had to lift their arm— the sword was coming for their throat—

They tilted the saw spear up; the chikage caught on the handle, gouged out a nick, and then began to scrape down towards their grip. The sharp steel crashed straight against their hand. The edge sliced at the base of their index finger, glancing off the knuckle bone and trailing blood as it arced away. The hunter's gasp hissed sharply through their teeth and they leapt back. Pain throbbed up their hand, burning and insistent, but their fingers still flexed a hold on the handle. Blood was soaking through the ribbon wrapping, dripping damp against their palm. They couldn't let the saw spear slip from their grasp.

The advantage of offense had clearly transferred to the crow; the hunter prepared for the next blow, shifting their weight in expectation of a managed retreat. If the knight advanced with the same aggression that the hunter had first offered, they'd be backstepping, enforcing distance between themself and the thrust of the sword.

Nothing came. The crow was standing still, not quite at ease, but clearly more relaxed than the hunter's own wretched tension. The knight had paused to turn the wheel of the pistol and reload. The process was slower than it needed to be, mockingly so. The revolution of the wheel sounded off the little clicks of aligning gears as a countdown.

The hunter took advantage of the offered time. With a hasty depositing of gunpowder and another wadded bullet stuffed into the barrel, the blunderbuss was primed. They adjusted their grip on the saw spear, looked up, and blinked away an errant bead of sweat. A nascent realization nagged them: they could feel the cold, but the iciness wasn't piercing them as it should. Beyond the exertion of the battle, they still felt overly feverish. Annalise's wrist had been furnace-warm against their mouth, and they had invited that corruption in.

The crow stood patiently in place. The hunter was being offered the first move again. The corner of their mouth twitched.

They surged forward, feinting right but then arcing the swing of the saw to the left; the serration snagged on the crow's arm. The hunter planted their feet and yanked on the blade, twisting the crow forward. Droplets of blood spattered up from the saw as it tore through flesh. It was difficult to judge how deeply the cut sank. The resistance against the dragging metal could be either armor or bone.

The bite of the blade had pulled the crow towards them, and the two were now close enough together that they neared embrace. The repeating pistol couldn't be aimed for as long as the hunter kept the saw spear lodged in that arm, and the knight was at too awkward an angle for an attempted thrust of the chikage. The gauntlet's grip on the sword was shifting, though, and the hunter saw the crow's hand raise high.

The hilt of the sword slammed down on their left shoulder, striking the same soreness the crow had granted prior with the handle of the gun. There was the sound of something cracking, and for a moment the hunter was terrified that their bone had broken beneath the blow, but their left arm still moved. Their hand swung up. The wide muzzle of the blunderbuss cupped against the crow's chest.

The hunter pulled the trigger.

The bullet sprayed out into the dark. The crow was no longer there.

Another burst of pain came from their shoulder as the hilt struck them again; the crow had reappeared behind them. The hunter spun on their heels, nearly sacrificing their balance for speed, and the teeth of the saw warded off an overhead slash from the sword. They recognized a shard of yellowed bone gripped between the knight's gauntlets and the gilded hilt. Either the crow had looted the same grave outside the abandoned workshop, or the thing was yet another artifact commonly collected by the castle. The hunter had experimented with the same before, quickening their step to slip between outstretched claws and pierce a beast's heart.

The hunter lurched to the side and swung the saw spear in a wide circumference. Trying to hit the crow directly now would be like trying to grasp smoke. Instead, they had to be wholly defensive and enforce their control over the space around them. They swung again, and the tip of the spear swept by the polished buttons of the crow's coat, but the knight dashed through the hunter's efforts, fading into the air like ash.

The hunter glimpsed a silver line in the dark and swung wildly towards it. When the saw did catch the strike of the sword, it felt like a lucky accident. The ringing clash of the impact buzzed up the hunter's straining tendons.

The crow didn't let the blade linger. The sword came again, spotted as a peripheral gleam. The hunter contorted away from the thrust and their boots slid against the snow as they began to stumble. The crow was daringly close. They had to keep their balance—

A swipe of a sabaton against their ankle sent one kneecap cracking against stone. They had to try to stagger back to their feet, to lift the saw spear in time to block the expected blow, but there was the pervasive awareness that the crow could now easily slit their throat. Their shoulders drew up and instinctive tension stiffened their neck, as if that vain resistance would stop the blade. The certainty of death choked them. They had to get back up. They had to—

The sword came, and they flinched, but the tip of the chikage merely flicked out and sliced a superficial line along their left arm, just below the knotted tear of their sleeve. It was a wound to match the crow's own.

Once finished, the knight took a long step back and waited.

In their panic, the hunter had forgotten that their end would not be made so mercifully efficient.

Distantly, mechanically, the hunter felt their knee straightening and their feet planting flat beneath them. Inside, some unnamed harsh emotion had boiled over and scoured them empty. They were adrift in a gulf found somewhere beyond fear, bordered by despair; shame, too, had coiled up venomously in their stomach. Their breath poured vapor into the cold air and sweat beaded on their forehead.

The hunter faced the knight. Both were now unmoving. After a long wait for the hunter to take action, the crow slowly lifted the sword. The blade of the chikage crept forward; the hunter did not budge. The tip pressed up against their left shoulder, at the hollow above the curve of their collarbone. It prodded them lightly and waited for an answer.

Seconds slid by. The press grew more demanding. Pain centered beneath the blade as blood trickled from their shoulder.

The futility of it all had frozen them, but something yet more glacially inevitable lifted the hunter's hand. They let out a low, desperate sound sourced from somewhere deep in their throat. It felt like a snarl. It sounded like a sob. The saw spear swung up and knocked the blade away.

The crow stepped towards them. From beneath the jaw of the knight's helm, the hunter heard the fleeting hum of a laugh.

The battle began anew. The crow's pace had slowed, not from exertion but simply from the fading influence of the artifact bone. The knight's steps now came naturally, and with more predictable strides. A shot from the pistol strayed wide as the hunter sidestepped. One swing sliced their thigh, but the cut did not run deep. Annoyance came from the pain that thudded up their leg with every step, but it certainly wasn't enough to necessitate bringing out the healing blood. The hunter dodged one blow from the sword, then another; they prepared for a third, but the knight suddenly darted back and reached into a pouch-laden belt.

Reloading, perhaps. Grabbing more quicksilver bullets. The hunter rushed to ram another scrap wad into their blunderbuss. As they spilled more gunpowder into the pan, glass shattered at their feet.

Their eyes stung. Each breath was thin and airless. The smell made their head feel tight. The damage painted across their body in cuts, in bruises— it had all been muddled in a wash of hazy silver. It was the same substance as the anesthetic staining the sack over the sacrifice's head. The hunter staggered to the side, dizzy, seeking fresh air, but the vapor clung to them.

A horrific vertigo bolted through them as they stepped too closely to the parapet's edge. There was a streak of ice along the ruined masonry and their boot slid against it. Below them was a long fall— ending, perhaps, in the rotten pit. As they corrected their balance, the strain of their ankle overextending sent a dull warning pain even through the numbing haze.

Was the crow prepared for this dangerous terrain? Or was the knight better used to the pristine castle within the illusory dawn? The hunter knew that the crow had easily traversed the rooftops while pursuing them, but ice was ice. If they could press on with the same aggression as before, they could try to steer the crow against the edge. The hunter circled away from the frozen streak and regained their footing on the stone.

The crow did not appear to be concerned with the hazard. Distracted by their possible plummet, the hunter hadn't noticed the knight rushing towards them— they lifted the saw spear and threw the blade at the sword, but the edge slid past the serrated teeth. Through the mist, they felt an echo of pain along their hip. Blood welled up and spilled over. They couldn't gauge the depth of the cut. With the numbing mist, it almost felt as if it wasn't there, but each heartbeat sent a little more crimson leaking out of their side.

They hooked a few fingers into their pocket. The vial— they had to— the imagined heated blossom of healing caused by bottled church ichor should have made them salivate, but as they gripped the glass, the contents looked like no more than lukewarm blood and a slight froth of spit. Something was wrong with it. Or— something was wrong with them. The mist—

They staggered back. The crow was far too close to them; they noticed with a spark of confusion that the chikage had been sheathed. A gauntlet grasped their shoulder and a knee drove against their side, striking the cut and smearing blood over the crow's greaves. Agony stung deep, the sensation breaking brightly through the numbing haze, and the hunter folded. The world was tilting. Their forearm scraped against stone. They still had their white-knuckle grip on their saw spear, and the blood vial was tucked against their hold on the gun. If they drank it now, it would surely be a waste. They had to withstand this attack until the numbness faded.

The crow knelt over them, and the pointed joints of the poleyn-guarded kneecaps pressed against the hunter's flanks. The hunter was pinned flat on their back; they thrashed their shoulders and kicked their heels off the stone. The crow pulled at their fingers, grabbing for the vial, and the hunter tightened their hold. The gun sounded a sharp retort as their joint slid against the trigger, firing it off in parallel to the floor. The bullet skittered out as useless embers over the stone.

The saw spear was too heavy for the hunter to make a worthwhile strike at the crow while trapped supine, but they had to keep holding on to it, lest the crow take it away from them. The gun, though unloaded, was still a blunt hunk of metal and wood. The crow had drawn back when the blunderbuss had fired, and now the hunter took advantage of the space, pummeling the barrel up against the knight's helm. The crash marred the intricate patterns worked into the silver; the next strike left a slight dent. They beat at the crow's head, again and again— all too aware of how the vial was held at risk of shattering, as the glass was tucked between their fingers and the gun's handle. The crow's hands were creeping back up, though, and as the hunter attempted another swing, the twin barrels of the repeating pistol pressed flat against their shoulder and fired.

Their spine arched, then slumped, then arched again. The jeweled crown threatened to fall from their head. The bullets had passed clear through their shoulder, and now the boiling quicksilver was searing the skin of their back as it puddled beneath them. Weakness seeped from the wound alongside dulled pain. Their grip on the blunderbuss slackened. They vaguely recognized that their efforts may have caused more damage to the gun than to the crow. The flint hammer swung loosely and knocked against the pan; the spring-loaded mechanism was broken. The gun slipped from their grasp and fell to the ground, but their fingers still loosely caged the blood vial. The crow plucked between their thumb and index finger to take it.

The numbing mist was dissipating and the hunter was regaining an awful clarity regarding their injuries. The bullet wound in their shoulder felt like a pit of fire, but the cut on their side was less insistent than they had expected. It was a surface wound that didn't call for the immediate use of healing blood. It had been a ploy. The crow had taken a risk in assuming that the hunter was unfamiliar with the silver vapor, but the knight had been correct; the closest thing the hunter could think of was the stinging spray of the rosmarinus, but only because it was similar in hue. Once they had been numbed, the knight had used the wounding of the hunter's side to provoke them into revealing the blood vial— and now, their only opportunity to heal had been successfully snatched away.

The hunter expected the crow to uncork the vial and dump it into the snow, but the knight merely held it up as if peering at the liquid through the silver helm.

The hunter wasn't about to lay idle. Fire threaded through their nerves, sending spasms of pain down from their shoulder, but the mostly-responsive muscles of their arm brought their left hand to their belt. The bulbous handle of a whittling knife nestled against their palm.

The crow leaned forward and the hunter swung their hand up, angling the short blade toward the knight's ribs. It sank into the fabric of the coat and pulled back with its tip glistening red. They braced themself for another fiery pang from their shoulder and prepared to swing again.

There was pain, and it was far, far more than they had been expecting. One sharp metal digit of the crow's gauntlets was digging into the ragged entry wound left by the bullets. The hunter uselessly writhed, trapped beneath an inescapable agony. The crow, having well confirmed that the hunter was no longer numb, scraped their flesh harshly while pulling the finger back. The bullets may have been hot enough to cauterize their own path, but now the gauntlet tore at the scalded muscle, reopening a wellspring of blood. The hunter's chest heaved as the withdrawn finger came to rest at the tattered rim of the wound. Panic tightened their throat as they struggled to retaliate. Their left arm was leaden with pain. Their right bent up at the elbow, smacking the saw spear flatly against the crow's armored thigh in a despairing strike.

Their heartbeat flagged. Sinew sheared. Round shadow shapes popped in the hunter's vision as the sharp tip of the gauntlet plunged back in.

After a time, the crow drew back. With a gauntlet dripping red, the knight uncorked the blood vial and wafted it by the hunter's nose.

Their sight had blurred, but it clarified with each blink; they remotely realized that there were tears dribbling down their temples. As they focused on the half-filled vial above them, their throat twinged. The scent had returned to a sweet richness. Appearing satisfied by their response, the crow pulled the vial away, turned, and then lifted one knee to pin the hunter's chest. The hunter fought to inhale against the sharp pressure placed on their ribs. They vaguely felt the crow rifling through their pockets, running a hand over their belt, checking them for more vials— but the search was only cursory; the sorry state of the one vial they had so desperately held had probably clued the knight in on their lack of any others. The remnant wadded bullets were ignored, as the blunderbuss was no longer functional. Upon finding another whittling knife, the crow lifted it up and looked at it with an incredulous tilt of the head. The hunter watched as the crow tucked the knife back into their belt, the knight clearly confident that the blade was inconsequential. The one still clutched in their left hand was left alone.

The weight shifted, and the crow's knee returned to jabbing into the hunter's side. The vial tilted over their head. Blood spattered their nose, their lips— they twisted their neck, repulsed by their own need. Their jaw fell open and they felt the soothing heat slide into them when they swallowed. Pain relented. The gouged wound in their shoulder seamed shut.

They would be mostly healed, but it wasn't enough. No amount would be— a whole stockpile of vials still wouldn't get them back to the mainland. As their wounded side stitched closed, the hunter only felt a sickening gladness at the fact that no blood was left. The crow would have only taken it and used it to deny them death.

The hunter recalled the extravagantly flooded floor of the dueling arena. There could be more blood waiting for them yet. Terror struck up their spine. They could not discern a preference between a future of begging the crow for life and a future of begging the crow for death.

There was a pause as the knight watched them stabilize. Then, the crow's gauntlets traced a line against where the dueling scar striped their belly, and the hunter thrashed. They drove the whittling knife against the crow's thigh, but the stubby blade only glanced off the armor and slipped from their grasp. An armored thumb dug against their abdomen. The crow wasn't yet tearing them open; the knight was finding too much fun in dragging the process out, in slowly driving the clawed gauntlet against their skin. The hunter's stomach churned as they yearned for claws of their own. To be a beast, mindless, slavering. Biting out the crow's throat or being quickly slain. Wishful thinking. They beat their fist against the crow's arm. They were no more a beast than they were—

Could it be that without the Dream, the hunter wasn't a hunter at all? What was left of them, really, without the shadow cast by moonlight? Without its intervention, they were no more than a corpse that had wandered a few more stumbling steps away from the grave. Their own blood had never been enough to save them. Their savior had been a hurried intravenous baptism, a blessing from the veins of saints who had used the devoted machinery of their own hearts to dilute the impossible love of the divine. Only then had the Dream plucked them from the pit. That grace was now lost. They had given it up. They had nothing. They were no one.

What force, then, still moved their hand?

Their fingers scrabbled at the collar of the feathered coat just as the tips of the crow's gauntlets drew blood. They pushed their hand over the jaw-like bevor of the crow's helm and yanked it as hard as they could.

The crow's head wrenched from side to side, attempting to slip free of the hunter's hold. The hunter lost their grip on the helm, but they jammed their fingers up further, shoving them beneath the elaborately embossed visor. They felt the soft give of flesh against their fingertips, and then something damp, almost rubbery— the crow's eye, they realized, and as they desperately raked their nails across the lower eyelid, the knight's hands came away from their abdomen. The crow reared back and the hunter's knuckles scraped harshly against the lower rim of the visor, pushing it up on its hinge. The jaw portion hung askew and twisted further as the hunter grasped at whatever they could hold.

A gauntlet thudded against their throat and the hunter coughed breathlessly. As they writhed and struggled to inhale, the crow leaned back and lifted one hand to the slow stream of blood trickling from beneath the shadowed depths of the helm. It slipped out from the gouged eyelid, down the mottled, hollow breadth of the cheek, and past lips that had a vicious scar running from nose to chin. More scarring pocked the knight's jaw; the blood dribbled over the whorled surface and then dripped to spatter against the deep blue fabric of the coat. For a moment, the crow's mouth quirked with surprise. The knight tapped a finger against the streaming blood as if unable to believe that it was there. Soon, though, the expression shifted away from confusion. The crow smiled.

The hunter wasted no time staring. They drew their fist back, heaved their healed shoulder into the movement, and punched the crow in the teeth. Their knuckles split and left behind a spatter of crimson. The crow's head snapped back from the impact, but the rictus grin remained; if anything, it grew more manic. The knight ducked to the side of the hunter's next strike, rolled off their chest, and then leapt up.

The hunter lurched onto their side and pulled their knees beneath them. Their left shoulder was healed, but still streaked with red; the knotted tie of their torn sleeve was heavy and damp with it. The slice on their right hand had mostly closed, and the handle of the saw spear was sticky with blood. The hunter stood. They adjusted the set of the crown upon their brow. They held the saw spear with both hands and stood in wary anticipation of an attack.

The crow paced around them and the hunter pivoted to keep the knight in sight. The corners of the crow's mouth quivered, as if holding back a laugh. The knight lifted up the repeating pistol, dangling it loosely by the trigger guard; it was unloaded. The crow made a show of tossing it to the side.

The hunter noted that the crow's shoulders were shivering— not because of the frigid wind shrieking over the parapet wall, but instead from an unrestrained eagerness. The gauntlets settled over the hilt of the sword and then twisted it oddly in its sheath. It was an easy, practiced motion; it was the habit the crow had just barely held back during their first duel.

The hunter lunged forward with the saw spear extended, hoping to interrupt whatever the crow had begun, but the change came too quickly. The knight's already pallid face drained further; the grin became more of a grimace. A hint of exertion finally weighed upon the crow's frame— hunched, heaving out an exhale, knees bent— but the knight soon rallied and reacted to the incoming blade. The sword glided up out of its sheath, flowing as a stream of viscera. The current of blood writhed around the blade, filling the air with the sickening scent of iron. It struck at the saw spear and the impact sent globules of blood splashing against the hunter's brow.

The sword— the crow— the crow was the sword, bloodied and sharp, moving with incredible fluidity. When the sword cut the hunter's forearm, the knight delighted in it with mouth open and gasping a laugh. The hunter felt the crow's blood squirming upon their skin.

The hunter was kept on the backstep, but they could see the strain sneaking through the crow's euphoric expression. Using the blade like this was a taxing indulgence. A lesion upon the knight's jaw had split beneath the hunter's strike, but the wound was kept bloodless by the cost paid to the transformed chikage. The crow couldn't keep soaking the sword in blood forever— but there was no guarantee that the hunter would survive for long enough that it would matter. The crow had feinted around the swing of their saw spear. The tip of the sword had pierced the hunter's thigh so deeply that they felt the crow's pulse beating against their own.

They staggered back and tore the teeth of the saw across the crow's arms. The sword pulled free of their leg. The wound was bad. Not immediately deadly, but bad. They wouldn't be as quick on their feet anymore. Still, the hunter threw themself forward, swinging the lengthened saw spear overhead. The crow happily evaded the clumsy blow, but something about the movement sparked the hunter's memory.

How many hunters had the crow killed before? The evidence of it was piled in the rotting pit below. This was surely a familiar dance for the knight, ingrained somewhere deep in muscle memory, and the hunter knew it, too. They knew the way their cleaver— their saw spear— was heavy in their right hand. The way their grip on the handle would loosen only in death. The way the weapon was a part of them, the same as how the crow had become a sword. Even when the knight had started tearing into the hunter's gut, they hadn't pried their fingers away from the saw spear's bloodstained grip.

The crow was expecting that. Depending on that.

At the hunter's side, ice stretched slick across the edge of the parapet.

During the duel, the hunter had caught the chikage with the teeth of their cleaver. They had taken advantage of the snagged blade by yanking it to the side and trying to unbalance the crow. But the crow had easily recovered— the knight had actually used the cleaver as a fulcrum, turning against it by leaning weight upon the ensnared sword. The way the knight retained perfect balance was actually dependent upon the hunter's attempt at disturbing it. The quick turn that the move allowed also opened the hunter to an unblockable strike from behind. They had only avoided it during the duel by dropping to the floor.

If the crow pursued the attack as usual, there would be no risk of stepping too close to the icy edge. If the hunter found a way to disrupt it, however…

Surely the opportunity for an unguarded attack would be too appealing for the crow to refuse.

The crow thrust the blood-laden sword towards them. It fell between the teeth of the saw spear with such force that the blade lodged into the serrated metal. Nervous jolts skittered up the hunter's spine, made from fear and expectant excitement alike. They had to react as naturally as they could. They bared their teeth as they hauled the saw spear to the side, pulling the crow along with it. The knight's grin widened as weight was pushed onto the sword, turning the movement against the axis of the spear.

The hunter released their white-knuckle grip on the handle. The saw spear clattered to the ground. The knight stumbled, the redirection of momentum interrupted, and the hunter knew they had less than a second to take action. They twisted on their heel and drove their shoulder against the crow. The sword, still ensnared by the teeth of the fallen saw, was pulled from the knight's hands. They both careened towards the edge, but it was the crow's sabatons that slipped first. Gauntlets clutched at the hunter's arms. Each grappled with the other; the hunter had to fold to their knees, and then fall flat onto their belly, but the crow had one leg hanging off the side of the wall. One of the crow's hands dropped to scrape at the ice; the gauntlet left shallow gouges but couldn't catch.

The hunter felt themself sliding forward. More of the crow's weight was slipping over the edge and the hunter was being pulled with it. The crow held a death grip on their left sleeve and was now grasping at their right, the sharp fingers feeling like they were sinking down to bone.

They were going to fall together.

Pain tore down their right arm as the crow's hips dropped over the side and the clawing of the right gauntlet slid to their wrist. The feathered tatters of the cloak fluttered wildly in the wind. The hunter heard the sabatons scuffing uselessly against the sheer stone wall below. They struggled to keep their center of gravity away from the crumbling edge, but the crow had pulled their shoulders so far forward. The jeweled crown began to slip from their head as they reared back. A sound of exertion tore out of them as they tried to pull away from the brink, but the crow's weight only dragged them out further. Dizziness washed over them at the sight of the distant ground. The crow was hanging from them now, mere moments away from pulling them into falling.

An empty calm came to them. The hunter closed their eyes.

Weight shifted against their arms. The crow had latched onto their sleeve in an attempt to climb back up, hooking the gauntlets into the spot where Elaine had drunkenly knotted together the fabric that the martyr's staff had torn. Shoddily tied and soaked with blood, the cloth began to unfurl.

The hunter didn't dare to breathe. Seconds slid by. The gauntlets had fallen away so quickly. There hadn't been any sort of scream; they hadn't heard the crow land. They forced their eyes to open and stared down at the ground below.

They spotted the body dark against the surrounding snow. The crow was unmoving. That didn't guarantee death, but the hunter still doubted that the knight was about to rise any time soon. Perhaps the snow had softened the fall. Perhaps not. If the hunter didn't inch their body back from the slippery edge, then they would take the same plummet head-first. They braced the toes of their boots against the floor and crept backward. Panic sickened them when an unwise shift of their chest sent them sliding back down, but then they slowed, holding their breath. Soon, the stone beneath them was rough and solid. They rolled onto their back and stared into the black sky.

The wind chilled the sweat and tears streaked over the hunter's face. Water lapped at the broken bridge. There was no sense of victory.