The ground was heaving and kicking; that, or the uncertain fluid leaking from the crow's inner ear was the evidence of a tenuous grasp upon physical reality. A miscellany of fractures made each breath a shallow shudder. The knight's throat bobbed. Light steps pressed through the snow and approached at leisure. After a few more lurching moments, bare feet stood to the side of the crow's head. Something about the world settled and grew still. Something within the crow still roiled. The dented helm was averted, and the movement was shivery and laborious; Annalise was silent as the crow turned away from her.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the chikage. There was a sound like the tearing of a wet book. The blade slid from her, and then its edge was angled downward. Blood spattered at the corner of the crow's mouth.

"Drink," she stated, and when the crow's lips did not part she shook at the hilt; the remnant blood dribbled down in dark clots. "Drink. Thou mayst wallow in thy failings later, if that is thy wish, but thou hast earned no ire from me— nor pity. There is no need for thee to lie broken."

The gauntleted fingers flexed minutely. Some remnant hesitation rose in the twitching of the corner of the crow's mouth.

Annalise leaned forward. A name was spoken. The crow trembled as blood splashed against teeth and tongue.


"Stop," she sighed, and the crow could not discern if there was a bored undercurrent to her exhaustion; still, the knight lowered the knife and set it upon the table with deliberate slowness.

"It is a fine thing, and given with purpose," she added, and she walked with small, aimless steps; she eventually came to rest at the edge of the ash-strewn hearth. The rust-red embers of the fire made for dull smears of reflected glow upon her mask. "It would not do to have it destroyed. If one was found to be truly undeserving, I would ensure that all gifted finery be returned to my possession. The treacherous are to be buried as bare as truth, are they not?"

Atop the table, beside the knife, the tangled tatters of a knight's wig sat mussed, as if the crow had first attempted to tear it by hand. A few loose white strands littered the floor. The crow's gaze was fixed blankly to the tabletop; Annalise, beneath her helm, focused upon the dying sputters of the fireplace.

"Art thou treacherous?" she asked.

The crow's face snapped towards her; having shed the feathered cloak in a fit of attempted penance, the knight's shoulders now shook under a thin layer of linen.

Her mask remained facing the fire. "Thy wish is to cast aside thy allegiance to Us, yes? To no longer take heed of the throne, and to act in ways so abjectly counter to Our command—what more lèse-majesté must I suffer on account of the bruising of thy pride? What more—"

The wooden chair tipped back and clattered against the floor as the crow stood. The knight advanced in hurried strides that soon collapsed to kneeling at her feet.

"No?" Annalise asked. "Thou'rt denying it?"

The crow grasped at her dress in silent plea and then reared back as if burned; breath whistled in heavy inhale and uneasy exhale.

A stray spark leapt from the embers and died upon the floor. "Then it is understood," she said. "We will not say that thou'rt forgiven, as there is nothing to forgive, excepting this current disobedience. Cast aside any guilt. It is that which thou'rt undeserving of."

The crow's head shook from side to side.

"This is not a decree in need of a single word from thee," she hissed. "It is not the place of the tool to disagree with the hand."

The crow stilled, but a tension was still held in the tightening of fingers.

"I bid thee to take time in leisure," she continued, and her tone softened. "The spirit clings to injury far longer than the flesh; let it heal. I will make a sunlight to ensconce us, and liven the halls. Adoration, even in echo, may reassure thee—"

The crow's shoulders had slumped, and the air was heavy with restrained dissent. Annalise turned away from the fire. Her helm tilted. "I had refrained from telling thee," she said, "as hope oft only widens the wound. The shore has been thoroughly sifted. Wouldst thou like to guess what was found?"

Within the fire, the embers crackled; a flame lapped at the crumbling charcoal.

"No more than the crown," she said as the crow stared up at her. She repeated it absently, her attention drifting inward. "No more than the crown." She sighed and gathered herself; the crow withstood the weight of her gaze. "Thy misery is meaningless— not all is lost. Potential rests greatest atop the precipice, and afore us still lies a long fall. All that is needed is the push. But if thy guilt is not so easily dispelled by this revelation— well, what is a punishment but an absolution earned?"

The crow waited, hardly breathing.

"Our dear traitor may yet wake upon the mainland," Annalise said. "If the wretch does not return to us of their own accord, then perhaps they shall need found. Would this penance befit thee? Leave this place. Consider thyself banished. There will be no way for thee to return until thy means of passage is reclaimed from thy prey. It is possible, of course, that their body merely lies benthic and beyond Our reach. There may be naught for thee to find. But the seeking is still thine," she said, and her fingertips brushed across the crow's brow. "Reclaim Our pride, and every reward is thine upon thy return."

Eagerly, the crow's head inclined upward; steadied hands clasped reverently around her own. The knight nodded.

"Then it is I thought," Annalise said, and she urged her wrist down against teeth. "Thou'rt not one to quit the cause so easily."


The sky pulsed, as swollen as a bruise. The clouds hung distended, and the stars shrank back. The whole of it was oppressive, but the crow's attention was fixed upon the city below, and so the tumefying moon was ignored. The moon did bring its own banquet of scents, though, and they pervaded the air with a perverse sweetness: meat rot, musk and sweat, oily smoke. At this point in the long night, the city more than reeked.

Somewhere in the filth below, there had to be a single silver thread, unsubtle in its contrast— and familiar. A gauntlet dipped into a hidden satchel. A cloth stained with dull red was lifted to the grinning jaw of the helm. There was a scent trapped upon the handkerchief, beneath the blood, and it was both delicate and brutal: white flowers, the pale light that fed them, and graves in the ground beneath.

The crow breathed it in deep, refolded the cloth, and then tucked it away. Supplies were given a cursory check; a length of rope looped at the hip, glass orbs of vaporous anesthetic, the heavy pistol, the length of the chikage. Shingles rattled underfoot as the knight picked a path to the next rooftop.


Behind locked doors and barred windows, the crow could hear weeping, laughing; in some, there was a silence, but it hung so heavily that it could only be sourced from something alive and waiting. The streets were littered with torn hair and matted fur. In a little tableau at the mouth of an alleyway, a smear of blood accompanied an arm cut off at the elbow. The fingers had begun to curl into claws. It had been at attempt, perhaps, to excise the disease where it had first been spotted.

There were not many hunters left to sneak through the streets. Many had succumbed to the hunt before the sun had even set. From a high perch, the crow could spot one with a heavy cloth cloak and a thick iron helm hidden beneath their hood. They walked with an absolute lack of the furtiveness typical of most city hunters and stood with obvious confidence at the center of a hillside plaza. The crow briefly considered descending and claiming a prize, but a shadowed movement in the distance was a warning; a second cloaked hunter, accompanying the first, was keeping watch beneath the boughs of a dying tree. These two were not hunting beasts, but instead setting a trap for prey seeking egress from the Cathedral Ward.

For a moment, the knight considered: a hand, guided to hold a blade; the crow, claiming this space upon the plaza; bloodied and triumphant, the hunter standing beside. Prizes claimed from the felled bodies, and then shared.

The battle below could still be won, but the crow had more pressing duties to attend to. Far above the hillside, the drifting clouds were torn against the topmost towers of the cathedral.


There was some measure of satisfaction in revisiting the Church's gilded tomb; justice, even, in seeing how it had putrefied from both without and within. The crow's only disappointment lay in not executing any of the clergy personally. The pallid guards stationed at the entrance had already fallen; the crow wondered if another great beast had ripped through the ward. The knight nudged a foot against the snuffed lantern still clutched in the dead servant's hand. Fuel leaked from the broken reservoir and glimmered as it beaded against the puddle of blood. A long gouge tore from the servant's shoulder to the gut. It was large enough to be from a monstrous claw, but it was unlike a beast to leave a body so intact.

The tall doors ahead had been left open. It was a joy to take the entrance so freely. The crow slipped inside and began a silent ascent of the steps. The vast and empty grandeur of the cathedral's interior came into view. There was a light.

It was only a glimpse. Unfamiliar garb, unfamiliar hat, unfamiliar blade. Same scent. Same eyes, with attention turned towards the light of the lantern, and after a blink, they faded into dust, into nebula. Gone.

The crow's heart leapt. The sword ached for blood.


Soreness grew more insistent along the stretch of the neck and in the awkward arch of the spine. The hunter shifted drowsily and attempted to straighten themself out. They were now aware that they were on their feet. They could have drifted off standing up, having found a quiet spot in an alley, or perhaps somewhere in the back rooms of the little chapel—

Forks scraped against plates. Consciousness flowed back into them like water, and once the glass was nearly full, they blinked. Candles flickered dimly. Long tables lined their sides, and each bowed under the weight of platters, chalices, bowls, that clinking cutlery, and the sound— something else, little tap-tap-taps.

Some large thing brushed against the hunter's hip. A hot, bulging mass. Although they startled and tried to jump away, the hunter was rooted to the floor. A monstrous flea pushed past them. Its thinned hands and feet smacked against the wet tiles. The long tongue darted out and slithered over a ruby puddle. There were more, twitching and ambling around them. The hunter shuddered. Even if they could move, there was nowhere they could step where their boot would not find filth; beneath the spilled feast left to the crowd of fleas, there were thick worms wriggling through the slop. The hunter tore their attention away from the pit and made frantic glances at the periphery.

Their eyes widened.

"Elaine," they said, and the name had to be forced through the tightening of their throat. "Elaine!"

Nobles sat upon the outermost line of seats, facing inward to enjoy the scene. They were dressed in spotless finery. They were dressed in makeshift shrouds. Elaine was there, tittering about something as she turned her smile towards Alanna. The jewels upon her neck seeped into the hem of her dress.

"Elaine," the hunter cried out, and her head tilted ever so slightly towards them; at first, there was amusement, but as they called her name again it shifted to annoyance. Her brows furrowed. Sophia said something, and then she laughed; she shifted in her seat, and her back was turned toward the hunter.

"Elaine," they said once more, despairingly; when she did not turn their hands began to tremble. A fat maggot squirmed over their boot; they could not move to shake it off. Their sight blurred and their eyes grew hot. "Damn. Damn you. Damn you all—"

"Good hunter, wouldst thou prefer a seat at the table, or to instead be the thing served atop it?"

Their body went rigid. Terror clamped a hold upon their neck. Finally, their feet moved, but only to betray them. Whatever was under their boots smeared like butter as they turned. They could not bear to look at her; they had no choice but to look at her. They faced the head of the table and expected to see the thin red membrane stretched taut across the coming conflagratory flood. They only saw the silver mask and the curve of her hair over her bare shoulder.

"Art thou not yet aware of the lacking?" Annalise asked. "Or hast thou felt the hunger, and only been unable to give it a name?"

"The hunger," the hunter managed to choke out in an attempt at a question. "The—"

"It is an old story," she said, and she waved her hand to the breadth of the banquet. "Thou hast eaten of our food, drank of our wine. Slept in our beds. We invited thee in, and in turn, thou offered heartily every invitation of thine own. Thou mayst hold all hatred for this place now, but it belongs to thee, and thee to it."

The hunter's chest rose and fell in staggers. Annalise placed her hands flat upon the table and twisted them until they were palms-up, wrists-up. "It will be felt, I assure thee. Does it not rend thee now?"

The nobles were laughing, drinking. The floor had rotted out; tile fell to bone. In the air, there was an iron scent that made the hunter's mouth water. Each upturned wrist held a river. "Don't," they said, and their stomach twisted.

The helm inclined. She folded her hands in her lap. "'Tis not something within my power to stop but in one way," she said. "I will inform thee of Our decree: Return to Us, or be retrieved. The choice is thine, as is all consequence." She leaned back in her throne and tapped her fingers against the golden whorls of the armrests. "In time enough, thy will shall fail, thou shalt fall senseless, and to return here shall be the only thing to quench thee. But that time is not a luxury that thou shalt own. Return here by thine own determination, and soon, and perhaps the severity of thy welcome shall be halved."

"And if I can withstand it?" the hunter asked with more strength in their voice than they felt. "This hunger?"

"Then it is as I said," she replied, and her shoulder lifted in a slight shrug. "Thou'rt to be retrieved."

There was their hand, guided to hold a blade; a body, pressed flush to their back; and the crow, holding them, embracing them, a gauntlet encircling their wrist to bring the hunter's hand and the knife it held to their belly. The rushed out an exhale, scouring the air from their lungs in an attempt to shrink back from the sharpness, but the metal punctured skin and dragged out to the side, bringing a burgeoning bloom of organs, shining slippery and inevitable, spilling pain into the pit, a push—

They gasped and choked on spit; with a few hacking coughs, the hunter caught their breath and their pounding heart began to settle. They rubbed at the side of their face and felt an indent left by whatever they had rested upon. A thesis, it seemed. They had scattered the thick sheaf of papers upon the table in their panic. One booklet had fallen to the floor and now lay open. They retrieved it from beneath their seat and gave the page a skim. Base metals, precious metals, right to left, beginning to end; they snapped the book shut and squinted at the title. It was some sort of treatise on cognitive metallurgy. It might make for an interesting read, if only to further clarify hindsight.

"Are you quite alright?"

The hunter jolted at the voice, and then jolted again when they saw who it belonged to. There was blonde hair, a pale face, and a manner of dress now far too familiar; however, she was also familiar in a way that still invited friendliness. Arianna stared at them with a guarded concern. The hunter smiled wanly, forced their fingers away from the hilt of their pistol, and nodded. "Yes," they replied, and they dragged their thumbs across their eyes. "I just drifted off, and then startled myself when I woke up. Sorry if it disturbed you."

"I am undisturbed, dear," she said, and she approached them. "There's far worse to be heard tonight."

The hunter had fallen asleep within the small library at the back of the chapel. Arianna idly sifted through the mass of papers strewn across the table. Most of the mess was not the hunter's; other scholars must have paused in this place in the process of fleeing the lower city for the Cathedral Ward.

"Do you know much of the arcane?" the hunter asked.

Her brow quirked, and she shot them a careful glance; then, with a shrug, she shook her head. "I've a companion in the Choir, if you can believe it," she stated. "It's all she ever talks about. I pick up a little of it, here and there." She gave a wry smile. "She ensures that it is endearing, rather than tiresome. If all tipped as graciously as she, I think I would be safe in soon retiring."

"I'd love to pick the brains of some of those Choir folk right about now," the hunter said, and they set their elbows upon the table as they slumped forward. "It just feels as if… I keep hurtling towards unknown consequence. Any hint about what is to come, anything at all, would be of great help to me. I just want to know what I'm doing before I do it." They rubbed at their forehead. "The spider, who hides all manner of rituals, and the sky…"

They trailed off and looked up. Arianna, usually so steady a presence, had drawn back in fear. "Do you know what I'm talking about?" the hunter asked, and they restrained their eagerness when she quailed further. "Has your Choir friend brought it up? It's okay if you don't know."

She shook her head, and then anchored herself; her arms crossed tightly and there was a tight set to her jaw. "I haven't the slightest idea," she said. "I just know that when you said it— I felt this incredible dread. As if something was standing just behind me, and I need only turn to see it. Do you understand what I mean?"

"I think I do," the hunter said, and they pushed back their chair as they stood. "I've just had this awful dream—"

Paper crinkled in their pocket. They froze.

"The others generally don't deign to speak with me," Arianna said, and a bit of her typical dryness ventured back into her voice. "I can tell, though. The air is so dreadful. Everyone's shaking in their slippers. The poor thing that runs this place is trying so hard, really, but there's little one can do on nights like these." She shivered. "I am frightened, still, but I would have hated to face it alone. Thank you for bringing me here. Really."

"Yes," they murmured, and they crept a hand into their pocket. The corner of an envelope jutted against their fingertips. "It was the least I could do."

"My offer still stands," she said, and she watched them with a polite expectancy. "If you are in need of any blood—"

Was it there, the diluted scent of ever-decaying iron? Was the same corrosion kept beneath her skin? The hunter's mouth twitched. "No," they said loudly, and when a faint smile fell across her face like a closing door, they shook their head. "Not through any fault of your own," they insisted. "It just— wouldn't be wise. Not right now. Sorry."

"Of course," Arianna replied, and the hunter could tell by her tone that several questions were being deliberately discarded. She flattened her palms against her skirts. "It's rather nice back here," she said, and she glanced around the room. "The incense isn't as overbearing." She reached out and spun a ring of a miniature lunarium. "Those great golden paperweights are quite fun. Should we keep that closed?" she asked, and she gestured towards the opened hatch at the base of the far wall. "Where does it lead?"

"I came in that way when I first found the place," the hunter said. "I can close it, if you like. Listen, do you— do you know much of Cainhurst?"

Again, her brows furrowed, and she gave the hunter a calculating look; in seeing both their fear and their earnestness, she sighed, and her hands dropped to pick at the waist of her dress. "Sure," she said flatly. "I know plenty of the lost kingdom. Most of my knowledge, however, I've merely learned from the roles I've been asked to play, and those are not sources that you would be wise to cite, unless you are speaking of having cold congress with the queen. I've fielded some rather astounding requests regarding ice… The scant else beyond that, yes, I have inherited. But I don't have anything particularly revelatory to tell you, if that is what you are looking for. Why?"

"I was merely curious," they replied, and they bit back the urge to say more as they drew their hand from their pocket. "Thank you for indulging me." They gathered their things; a long-handled ax had its hilt slotted shorter before the hunter hoisted it. Arianna pursed her lips and considered the shine of the blade.

"Is that new?" she asked.

"It is," they replied, and they quickly strode to the door. "I thought I would do well to expand my repertoire a bit." They paused at the threshold, though the tension in their knees made it clear that they were nearly fleeing; the hunter glanced back at Arianna. They opened their mouth, started, stopped, and then started again.

"Take care," they finally said, and they left.


They rushed outside to be alone, or as alone as they could be; a fat carrion crow squawked out a demand that the hunter respect its territory before settling its outstretched wings against the cobble. The hunter tore the envelope from their pocket and stared at the seal. The purple wax crumbled and they shoved their fingers against the folded letter.

It was one last scar left by her will upon their reality. The text of the summons was much the same, but the salutation lacked their name.

Fear spiked through them and they closed their eyes; once they gathered their thoughts from scattering panic, the recollection came to them. They could still remember it, but it seemed like such a delicate thing, meant to be held tightly lest it slip away from them again.

A dryness settled low in their throat. They swallowed and clutched the letter. The hunter turned on their heel and looked up to the grand cathedral.


The skull had offered enough wisdom to guide them to the spider. Perhaps a few secrets still hid within its jaws. The hunter brushed a glove over the stringy remnants of hair. No visions flooded their sight; no voices drifted past their ears. Nothing yet, then, if at all. They would have to search the Byrgenwerth library again for any remnant guidance, if it hadn't been fully purloined to Cainhurst already, and then they would have to take the plunge.

They returned to the cathedral lantern. Their body faded.


A breeze ruffled through the white petals. The hunter's hand came to rest just below their throat. Their breath felt thin. The sense of suffocation was only imagined, but their lungs strained all the same. As they roved across the paths, they spotted an unnaturally tall form folded into smallness; the Doll was praying at the grave closest to the workshop. They strode up to her, and she stood. "Where is Gehrman?" they asked.

"He is sleeping," the Doll answered. "Are you going to wake him?"

The hunter frowned, and then looked about at the ground; finding nothing to hold their focus, they looked up again. The slope of the hillside bolstered the Doll's height, and her glassy face loomed over them. The hunter had felt an urge to avoid the Doll, fearing recognition of their prodigal return. They had quickly flitted in and out of the workshop a few times since their rescue, or reclaiming, wary of punishment, but none had struck them. If there was a consequence to be had here on account of their time in the castle, they had not yet met it.

There were other consequences, though— the moon bulging through the clouds was calmer here, but in the waking world—

"I just want to ask him," they began to explain, "what I'm meant to do now that— now that—the spider—" Words failed them. They swung their hand vaguely. The Doll's head tilted; the hunter swore they heard a creak.

"He is sleeping," she repeated, and the hunter could not discern if she was trying to discourage them from bothering him or if she was merely restating a fact.

"I just need to know," they said. "Why, or what…"

She didn't quite smile, but something about her expression lightened in kindness; her segmented fingers clasped together. "I do as I must, and have no need of knowing," she said— in instruction, in commiseration, the hunter could not tell, could never tell. "It is how you made me."

She had no more to say. Her hands fell back to rest below her hips. At the crook of the hillside path, the hunter could hear the little messengers playing with empty vials.

"I sometimes feel as if this place has made me," the hunter said.

The Doll lurched forward, and it took every wrung-out remnant of restraint for the hunter not to jump; she was merely bending herself until her shoulders were level with their own. Her elbows angled around them. Her fingers splayed flat against the hunter's back. It was a hug, perhaps— an earnest mimicry of one, at least. With her face brought beside their own, the hunter could see the cracked edges of her brow, and their cheek brushed against the near-translucent paleness of her hair— it was familiar, somehow, a recollection igniting because of it, in recognizing a distant resemblance—

The hunter heard her murmuring, and the thought was then scattered; they instead listened. Each word held the reverence of prayer.

"…Let this dream, their captor, foretell a pleasant awakening… be, one day, a fond distant memory…"


The hunter smeared their sleeve across their face and blinked away a splash of blood. The sliced thigh of a beast was splayed against a doorway; behind it, the hunter could hear a woman weeping. The street had been cleared, but none behind the doors responded to any calls; the hunter suspected that the sky above weighed down upon even those that could not see it.

The hunter was whole, and was suffering no more than a soreness up the thighs, but they pushed a vial to their hip and wavered at the rush. Warmth flooded them and seeped through every muscle. For a moment, there was no thirst.

There was the sudden and sharp awareness of being watched. The hunter turned, and the ax latched to its full length. They scanned the street and then the roofline. Feathers. A form, standing. They lowered their stance and stared. Their pistol needed reloaded. They had just wasted a vial—

"Calm yourself, would you?" Eileen said, and she hooked her boot into the gutter before sliding down the drainpipe. With the staggered elevations of Yharnam streets, it was not a long drop. The feathered cloak billowed as she landed. "You're a hard enough hunter to find, now. I wasn't quite looking, but I was used to seeing you scurrying about. Where have you been?"

The hunter smiled, tried once more to clean the blood (and the prickling beads of fever-sweat— they felt hot, they always felt hot, now) on their face with the back of their hand, and then they nodded towards the sky.

"… Aye, this is an odd night," Eileen replied. "And I don't intend to make it my business, unless it needs to be."

"Sorry," they said. "I've just been— all over, I suppose. And you gave me a fright."

"All over?" Eileen asked.

"Well," they said, and they faltered, feeling as if any explanation offered would be so inadequate as to be equivalent to a lie. They shrugged, paused, and then shrugged again. Eileen now stood less with an air of patience and more with the air of one waiting to witness something break.

"Well," she echoed, and it was not intoned as a question.

Their grip on the ax tightened. "Well, I break one dam, I find another, and each hides a flood of horrors that apparently can't be left alone," the hunter said, and their voice grew frantic. "After the vicar, the spider. After the spider, this sky, and the door to that village opened— it's— it's wretched in there, Eileen. I ran from it. I am not shamed in admitting it. But I will have to go back. I will have to go back. What terrible things must I return to—"

They gulped down one breath, and then another; Eileen watched them in careful silence. The beak of her mask jerked as she turned away. "Come on, then."

"What?"

"Follow me," she said. "I won't be taking you back down to the gaol, so don't look so worried. I merely could use a hand, if you can keep yours from shaking."


The hunter lowered themself onto their belly, shimmied upward, and peeked over the crest of the roof. Their brows furrowed. "Damn."

"Damn," Eileen agreed.

"It's really stuck, isn't it? There's certainly no room for it to turn. Do you think it could back itself out?"

"Perhaps," she replied. "Perhaps not."

Below them, in a narrow alley, Yharnam's second proudest export snorted at a puddle. The hog's flanks were flush with the walls. Stubby feet stamped at the ground. The hunter knew, however, that its little legs only looked squat and inflexible; at this pig's size, a strike from a rear trotter could snap a rib.

Eileen pointed towards the adjoining rooftops. "Those buildings aren't fit for life," she explained. "A fire came through here about a season ago, and then heavy rains rotted out a lot of the beams. Some vintner heir bought up the street for cheap, but it hasn't yet seen a cent of repair. In any case, I don't trust the rooftop way around. Through is my safest option."

"Through the pig," the hunter said.

Eileen nodded. "Through the pig."

"There's no other alleys beyond the bad buildings that'll take you where you want?"

Eileen was silent for so long that the hunter wondered if she had heard the question.

"Would you like to know something?" she finally asked, and she went on before the hunter could reply. "I don't think it can get back out. And that alley only narrows." The beak of her mask turned an increment towards them. "An awful way to go, don't you think? Even for a pig."

"Even for a pig." The hunter let out a long exhale. "No real way to bust it out of there, then?"

"Not without bringing the whole tenement down."

"Damn."

"Indeed."


The hunter's ax was pulled free from a thick haunch. "Dead?"

"Aye, it's dead," Eileen spat, and she drew her weapon from where it was slotted through the hog's neck. Blood leaked weakly from the wound and soiled the ground. Eileen held up her gore-stained blades and the hunter could surmise she was frowning.

The body of the pig was a mountain between them. The hunter waved their ax blade at its rolling back. "In the mood for gammon?"

"I'm not one for pork," Eileen said, and she sighed. "Truly, I don't know how I've survived here for so long."

A laugh escaped the hunter. They shook their head, ran their sleeve across their face, and looked up at the bruise-colored sky. Something in their brain pulsed against their heartbeat. Their gaze dropped down, unfocused. When Eileen stiffened, they forced a nod. "I'm fine," they said. "I've just— nothing."

"Nothing," Eileen echoed incredulously.

"I'm worried that," they started, and then they frowned. "I was going to— there's— it will sound bad to you," they said, and they tapped their fingers against the haft of the ax.

"Why is that?"

"You sentence the blood-drunk," the hunter said. "And I've—"

"I sentence no one." With a flick of her wrists, blood was flung from her blades to spatter against the street. As she began to tidy them, she did nothing to hide the terseness in her tone. "A crow's job isn't justice. It's mercy."

The hunter watched as she ran a dark cloth over the curved siderite. "There was a woman's blood that I think I may need to take," they eventually said. "But now that I've done this, she's fallen ill, and I can't— she can't— I keep wanting. I'm worried. I didn't intend for anything to—"

"Done this?" Eileen asked. "Done what?"

They looked up at the sky once more, their eyes wide.

The beaked mask angled towards the moon. If the throbbing weight in the clouds disturbed her, it didn't show. "Whoever, or whatever, is at fault for this… and if there is fault to be had," she said, and her mask made a curt movement from side to side. "It's beyond any of us, I'm afraid."

They frowned. "But I'm doing as the Dream—"

"Ach, the Dream." Her arms crossed. "There's as little sense to be had there as anywhere. Don't worry yourself over it. You'll wake up, sooner or later." She paused, as if hesitating to say more. There was an uncharacteristic set to her shoulders; her posture was closed, tired, tight. "We all do."

The hunter blinked. "You were in the—"

"I really try not to make it my business," she said, "as I was its business for quite a bit too long. But it wasn't all bad," she added when the hunter's frown deepened. "I got along well with that little doll. As well as one could, I suppose."

"How long will it take?" the hunter asked.

"To wake up?"

"Yes."

She sighed, then shrugged. "As long as it must."

She rolled her neck, interrupting the hunter's thoughts with a muffled crack, and she shook the tension out of her arms. "I'd ask you to take it easy when you do, but, like myself, you don't seem one to retire so soon." Humor suffused her tone, and she gestured at the corpse of the pig. "Do you still intend to throw yourself at every dangerous thing you see once the sun rises? I thought I told you to wait for my signal before slicing into our mark."

The hunter grinned. "I don't know," they said. "Maybe I'll go back out into the country. Look for…" They trailed off. Their smile faded.

Even with all tethers imagined as severed, freedom was an abstract; the night was all they knew. Whatever the sun brought with its rising would be more alien than anything else thus far.

"Aye, I thought so," Eileen said, and she set to securing her blades. "A hunter must hunt."

"I do want to leave," the hunter retorted, but they eased their tone and rubbed a hand against their forehead. "I might want to. One day. Go… somewhere."

"So did I." The siderite glimmered as she hooked the blades against her belt. "I've often thought about going home, even though that place had never quite made it onto a map, and it certainly won't be earning the distinction now."

The hunter stared at her, their sentiments stuck in their throat.

She shrugged. "It's a common enough tragedy, and I've always preferred purpose to place. You'll find something for yourself, I have no doubt. Whether the sun rises, or sets, or if the damned thing disappears completely. You're not one to give up so easily." Her head tilted slyly. "Who knows. Perhaps you'd make for a half-decent crow."

"Gods." The hunter leaned forward and rested their palms against their knees. They let out a short, hollow sigh, but a grin pulled at the corner of their mouth. "Maybe so."

The silence they shared was comfortable. After a time, Eileen nodded to the alleyway behind her. "I'm off," she said. "And you?"

"Any survivor that I've spoken with has been interested in shelter and yet unaware of the chapel," the hunter said. "I've been checking the grand cathedral in case any have ventured there instead— since I opened the gates, I imagine that it has been easier for folks to get in. I've also… there's a skull, there, that spoke to me once," they said, and they shot Eileen a strained smile. "I suppose you know how it is."

"I suppose I do."

"I've been returning to it on occasion," they explained, "just in case it has anything more to say."

"There's some wisdom in that," Eileen said with a nod. "Checking for survivors, that is. I may swing by myself."

"Good." The hunter nodded in return, but their gaze roamed; they looked at the dead pig, the bloodied paving stones, and the thin weeds sprouting up between them. "I think I may attempt to return to what's become of the gaol."

"Good," Eileen replied, and, turning away from them, she set her stride towards the dim distance of the alleyway. "And may the good blood guide your way, eh?"

The platitude came with a hearty dose of sarcasm, but she lifted her fist and clenched it; it was a brief gesture, but something in its simple steadiness struck the hunter's heart. Though she could not see it, they mirrored the movement. Then, they turned and set off in the other direction.

There was the moon, hanging heavy overhead; a castle, crumbling and distant; and a tidal pool of tethers, pulling. The hunter walked a few steps further into the long night.