Many thanks for the reviews, favourites and follows! Here's the famed trial by combat :P

Elgun breathed a sigh of relief once he was in his simple but comfortable chamber in Castle Never. This was the section reserved for those Luskans with diplomatic immunity, like Torio. Luskan guards were everywhere, and it made him feel safer. That Moon Elf could just as likely be guilty as innocent, he told himself. She might look pretty and fragile up on that platform in that plain, girlish dress, but the scar on her cheek was clear to see and, though she tried to hide it, her expressions were cruel, cold, angry. There was no fear in her at all, not that he could see. She had caught onto all of his lies, and played him for a fool.

Sighing again, the tale teller picked up the flagon of ale left by his bedside, the first instalment of his reward. He did not get to drink, however, before he heard the creak of the floorboards behind him, and the click of the door he had so brazenly left open being closed. He did not wish to turn but eventually he did – to see that ranger, hooded and cloak, a dark bloodstain on one side of his tunic, drawing back the string of the strangest bow Elgun had ever seen. Its ends glowed red, and the string was a silver strand of magic. The arrow hummed when it flew across the room, knocking into Elgun's shoulder and pinning him back against the wall. A gloved hand covered his mouth before he could shriek from the pain.

"I told you what would happen if you carried on your lies," the ranger hissed.

They will come. They promised they would protect me. But there was no time. No one but the gods themselves could have saved him. He just shook his head feebly, desperately, to no avail. The ranger's expression only hardened, those dark, dark eyes so cold, his mouth a grim line. He brought up a dagger to Elgun's throat, and began to press, blood beading and trickling slowly at first.

"But you had to keep on lying. Fool."

He drew the dagger across Elgun's throat.

"Are you ready for the Rite of Tyr?" Prior Hlam asked gently as he lit a second candle, illuminating his serene face and those bright blue eyes.

"I am," Isaviel responded sharply, watching him distrustfully as he approached through the darkness to place the candle by its twin on the altar before which she stood.

For a middle aged man his face was surprisingly unlined, his physique as upright and muscular as any fighter of younger years. His robes were plain unornamented white; he stood for the Order of the Even-Handed and he had once turned Isaviel away from his doors. His lulling tone still somehow filled the long chamber of vaulted ceilings and marble columns, echoing tellingly though all of the temple's sweeping beauty was veiled in darkness, the candle on the altar forming a globe of light in which they could converse. The vast hall was done no justice by her monochrome night vision, and she had seen it a little more than a year before in all of its midday splendour, but not once since.

"I have brought you some more appropriate robes for your combat tomorrow," he handed her the bundle he had carried under his arm and though she took it from him, preferring the robes of a monk to the dress of a defenceless girl, she did so grudgingly.

"My concentration failed me today," the Moon Elf muttered reflexively as she stared down at the soft grey robes in her hands, "When I needed my training the most."

"It is not your skill we doubt, but the evenness of your heart. Should you one day come to us with a steadier soul, our answer will be different."

"I will not come," Isaviel snapped, looking up into Hlam's deceptively benign eyes.

"As you will," he smiled, "But you must put these matters from your mind. Tonight you must partake in the Rite of Tyr. You must be alone for the first phase of the Rite. It is tradition…"

Hlam's words were interrupted by a commotion at the great wooden doors at the entrance, where a golden eye of Tyr had been wrought. Khelgar shouldered roughly through, looking straight ahead towards the pair standing at the altar, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"Now hold a moment," he growled, storming up towards them, "This Rite of Tyr can wait – I haven't had my say yet!"

"Khelgar, what are you doing? Why are you here?" Isaviel asked anxiously, wondering if the trial had convinced him of her guilt. His rage when he looked upon her was plain to see.

"Why am I here? Why am I here? Because it's not fair, that's why! I want to take yer place. That…Torio, she's got ye matched up with a Luskan-trained killer! There's no justice in that little viper suddenly bringin' a bear out o' nowhere t' fight ye. Let me fight 'im!"

"You feel it is unjust," Hlam reiterated softly for him as relief flooded through Isaviel.

"You're damned right it is! This isn't just a fight. By the gods, its honour, fairness…and the lives of you and those of Ember!"

The prior looked upon Khelgar curiously for a long moment before speaking again, turning to Isaviel.

"He does have that right. Do you wish to take this one as your champion and let him fight in your stead?"

Isaviel looked towards Khelgar's raging eyes and knew her answer immediately, though it took a moment for her to steel herself for this reality, now another choice had been put before her. Standing straight, she looked back at Hlam and shook her head.

"No. Lorne and all those backing him threaten me personally. I want to show them that I am a force they should fear, or I will die in the attempt," when she looked back at the Dwarf's understanding expression she could not bring herself to thank him, but she squeezed his shoulder and he patted her hand.

"Alright," he sighed, "But Lorne carries 'imself like a warrior. He's dangerous…so just be careful. Don't get yerself killed. We'll be watching ye out there tomorrow." He began to turn back the way he had come, as if he had not made such a dramatic entrance.

"Good Dwarf," Hlam called, "I bid you stay a while. I would have words with you once I have escorted your friend to the appropriate chamber."

Khelgar looked at the man with a mixture of curiosity and distrust on his face but stayed put as Hlam gestured for Isaviel to follow him through the plain door just behind the statue of Tyr looming over the altar. She did not look back at her friend, though she could sense his eyes on her as she stepped through the doorway after Hlam, the handle clicking shut softly behind her.

They ascended a narrow set of spiralling stone stairs in utter darkness, ancient cobwebs their only company. Ordinarily one's footsteps would have been expected to echo all the way up such a staircase and their silence was telling. Far above them Isaviel could see thick rafters and the framework of a cone-shaped roof. This must be one of the four great spires set at each corner of the main hall of the Temple of Tyr. Perhaps a third of the way up Hlam halted, opening a heavy iron door and pushing it forward with a little effort. He held it for her as she stepped past him.

The room in which she found herself was of bare stone but for the tall marble statue of Tyr, raising his hammer high, at one end, and the large blazing fireplace at the other. There were no furnishings save for the simple bench in front of the statue and a sleeping mat beside it; not a rug or even a set of curtains around the vast window in the other wall. The roof was of plain dark wood and the Moon Elf spied a rat or two scurrying along the rafters. At least she would not be alone.

"Here you will remain until we come for you in the morning. Gaze upon the face of Tyr and let him gaze upon you…if you are true to your words and deeds then you need not fear his judgement. You are permitted visitors during this time, for often justice does not solely lie in the words and deeds of the accused. You may gain strength and truth from the words of those closest to you. Those who wish to council you will be permitted up at midnight. First you must reflect alone."

Without waiting for a response, Prior Hlam left her, the door slamming shut with a clang that she heard ringing all the way up and down the spire. Sighing into the cool dimness, the Moon Elf turned her back on Tyr's face and moved closer to the fire to change into the robes Hlam had given her. She noticed that a bath had been made ready for her nearby and moved as if to unbutton her dress…only to spin around at the last second and catch the wrist of the one who sought her.

"You're not as silent as you think, ranger," she hissed as her eyes met Bishop's.

In response he sneered and caught her by the throat, leaning in closer so she could smell the blood and sweat and dirt on him. She had already noticed the red staining the side of his tunic and the way his leather jerkin was torn. But there was blood dried on the hilt of the dagger on his belt as well.

"I could kill you if I wanted to," he growled.

"Oh could you?" Isaviel leaned closer and whispered in his ear, "I don't think you could."

She only smirked coldly when his grip tightened around her throat, and he released her a moment later roughly, glaring at her when she looked him up and down, taking in his dishevelled appearance.

"I take it you came straight from the Duskwood."

"I did."

"What kept you?" Isaviel asked with as much steel as she could muster.

"Luskans," Bishop snarled, "The furthest western reaches of the Duskwood were crawling with their spies and I was tracking them, trying to find out if they'd been placed there because of Ember or not. Someone had informed on us – one of your lovely little witnesses. They knew I was there, and they caught us with arrows, the wolf and me."

"I'm surprised by your tenacity then, less by your piety. I'm supposed to be alone under the eyes of Tyr, so he can watch me while I bathe," Isaviel mocked, turning away a little to hide her fear for Karnwyr. Would Bishop mourn for the wolf if he died? She wondered.

"I didn't come back out of loyalty if that's what you mean," he snapped quickly – she did not hide her smirk at that, "You know I hate the Luskans. I won't let them win if I can help it."

"Don't tell me you've come to offer to be my champion," Isaviel snorted, and the ranger bristled even more, in spite of stepping closer.

"I don't like the look of Lorne…I think I'd quite like to kill him. But no, I won't be your champion. I wouldn't want to compete with the paladin," he sneered.

"I'm glad. I fight my own fights," Isaviel responded fiercely.

For just a moment Bishop's expression softened and he looked pleased. Either way, his next step brought him against her and there was a part of her – a small part – that wanted nothing more than to hold on to him and hide from the fear of the coming dawn. But the rest of her knew that was a foolish whim, and one that would do her no good for the coming combat. When he moved to kiss her she put a hand against his chest to stop him and he glared at her for it.

"No. You stink of the road and dried blood. Make good use of that bath, and you might just get your wish."

A grin crossed Bishop's face then. Before she could respond he caught her roughly by the hair and by the waist, dragging her against him though she fought him and kissing her until they were both clutching each other and gasping. Their struggle with their clothing was a brief one and it was not long before she pushed him into the bathing tub…and he pulled her in with him.

"It's just a statue you know," Bishop remarked languidly as Isaviel pulled on the robes Hlam had given her, "You don't need to turn your back on him. He isn't watching you…but I am. He won't be watching you tomorrow. But I will be."

"Really. Cheering me on as the great hero that I am, right?" the Moon Elf had not intended to sound so bitter about that, turning as she buckled on her belt, "They're going to wonder about the water. I obviously wasn't a bloodied and muddied traveller like you when I left the Hall of Justice."

"What does it matter?" Bishop rolled his eyes, "The priests themselves won't empty that."

"Just hurry up. I might have other guests soon."

The ranger's expression turned stormy as she spoke, standing from where he had reclined against the only bench in the room, catching the half-heartedly cleaned and even less well-dried tunic she threw at him. She bit her lip at the sight of him half-dressed like that, even with the poorly stitched wound in his side. He did not seem to notice her looking and finally pulled on his tunic, reaching for the jerkin as well, torn as it was. His sword belt followed next, and suddenly he looked very dangerous.

"Other guests," he sneered, "Don't you mean the righteous paladin and the pampered wizard?"

"Get over yourself, Bishop," Isaviel sighed, "You won't ever own me." As she turned away from him to stare into the fire she had expected some kind of retribution – he had looked angry enough – but none came.

"Fine," the ranger snarled at length, "But that doesn't mean I can't kill you myself after this is over."

"More empty threats, Bishop?" Isaviel taunted, dodging his attempt to grasp her arm and spinning around him on light feet, reaching up behind him and pressing a kiss to his shoulder before speaking in a whisper against his ear, "But one day I know they won't be. And I'll be ready for you."

A long silence followed, and when the ranger spoke again it was with a grudging tone.

"Lorne is barely keeping it together at the best of times. He's dangerous and cruel – crueller than you. He wanted to fight you at the trial, I saw it when he came in, and that's not a sign of someone in control," Bishop turned around to face her, his hands moving absently at her waist, his voice rough, "So keep hitting him, and hitting him, but don't let him get close to you. That falchion of his would cut you in half with a single swing. At some point he will go berserk too, and then he'll be most dangerous – but that will mean he's at his most desperate."

"You seem to know an awful lot about him," Isaviel noted and felt the ranger tense.

"And don't spare him. He won't spare you, not after all the trouble those Luskans have gone through to get to you."

With that he pulled away sharply, and she did not watch him leave. Instead she moved over to the long window, staring into the dark sprawl of Neverwinter beyond. Here she could see the opulent houses of the Blacklake district, neatly lined up around the deep central stretch of water which gave the place its name, twinkling with reflected starlight. Over the high district walls she could make out the Merchant Quarter, the beginning curve of the Dolphin Bridge and the walls of the Docks.

It was not long before the door opened and Prior Hlam announced that Isaviel had her first official visitor. Whether Bishop had entered and exited unnoticed or not, it did not seem to matter. Perhaps this was just another test for her character from the Temple of Tyr to prove how unworthy she was of the Order of the Even-Handed.

"I brought yer things," Duncan's voice only sounded once the door had closed, and Isaviel turned to see both her uncle and Sand standing at the centre of the room.

Her uncle was holding her weapon belt out to her and the small pouch which contained the four shards she had acquired. She smiled slightly as she took them from him, but could not meet his eyes. She feared the emotions in them, and when her glance met Sand's she turned away quickly again. Duncan put a heavy hand on her shoulder and patted a few times.

"I wish ye luck, lass. I know ye can handle yerself in battle but I can't help but wish ye'd accept the Dwarf or the paladin as yer champion."

"It was not their trial and these shards have not been forced upon them as they have been upon me," she responded coolly.

"Yer pride won't help, lass. If they choose to fight in yer name, it's no different from choosing to fight with ye for yer cause."

"But my cause is my own survival," Isaviel was quick to remind him, looking around now to meet his sad eyes and forcing herself to remain stern, though her heart was beating hard in her chest and she could imagine it rattling the shard lodged there, "If Khelgar or Casavir or anyone else died out there tomorrow, I would die in Luskan too in a far more gruesome way than I will tomorrow at Lorne's hands, no matter what he does to me."

Her uncle flinched at her words, and she could see tears in his eyes, but at last he nodded, automatically moving to wipe his hands on an apron which was not there and instead straightened his tunic uncomfortably. Nodding once to his niece and once to Sand he spoke no more words, patting her shoulder again for good measure and then leaving the room.

"I am sorry it has come to this, Isaviel. I wish we could have known Luskan wanted you sooner – we might have been able to gather more evidence," Sand sighed at length, running a hand through his hair and glancing at her sidelong.

"Perhaps. I knew Black Garius wanted me dead when Moire tried to kill me more than two and a half months ago," Isaviel pointed out, rolling her eyes in self-deprecation as she dropped her belt and the shards on her bed roll.

"True, but we could not have known that they were so determined and I did not realise how much of a hold Black Garius has over Luskan," the wizard shrugged and smiled wryly, "We will just have to make sure you dispose of Lorne tomorrow so that we can work it all out."

"And make sure it ends," the Moon Elf added sharply, approaching when he held out a bag to her. When she looked inside a wicked smile lit up her face, "Potions."

"Yes. Drink them before you go to the combat tomorrow and they will aid you against your foe."

"This isn't exactly within the rules is it, Sand?" she eyed him curiously, raising her eyebrows when he flushed.

"Well…no," he admitted, "But this is not a just fight either; so as far as I see it I am speeding you on your way to the correct outcome."

"Alright," Isaviel watched him squirm at her teasing tone, "Is there anything else you wanted to say?"

"Neeshka sends her best wishes for you and says she will be cheering you on tomorrow with the rest of us. I believe the aura of this temple makes her…uneasy. The others send their varying regards as well," Sand paused at the door, momentarily struggling with its weight before turning back and speaking so softly she could barely make out the words, "Good luck, Isaviel."

The Moon Elf nodded to him as he left, more in acceptance of his words and deeds than thanks, and seated herself upon the bench, still keeping her back to Tyr's righteous stare. Though it was late, and it had been a long day, she felt too nervous to consider seeking any sleep. Instead she took to sharpening and polishing her various weapons. When next the door opened the candles at each end of the bench had burned low; it must have been about three hours to the dawn. She did not look up from her work, and was surprised by the voice she heard addressing her.

"Let me be your champion," Shandra offered, "It's not right that you are being treated this way by the Luskans."

"I've explained several times by now why that's an offer I won't accept," the Moon Elf responded, glancing up to see the woman was dressed in a fine mail shirt with sturdy leather gloves, breeches and boots, a shortsword from Leldon's hideout at her hip though she was oblivious of its origins, "Where did you get your fancy new armour?"

"Nevalle had it made for me. He said it was part of the compensation for the burning of my home."

"What would Neverwinter have to do with that?" Isaviel balked, "Are you sure the rest of the 'compensation' isn't a night in Nevalle's chambers? It's not like Nasher sent those Giths."

"I don't know," the woman brushed it aside, seeing straight through her arch tone, "And if you keep pushing me away like that I might get tired of trying to help."

"I'm not pushing you away," the Moon Elf denied, "I'm being frank."

"You're being cold," Shandra corrected, approaching regardless and taking a seat on the bench beside Isaviel, "And I understand. It's because you're nervous, and that's alright," when she put her hand over the Moon Elf's, Isaviel looked up suspiciously, pulling away and returning to sharpening her blade, "But we're your friends and we're here to help you. You saved me twice and I'd like to be able to return the favour. Torio showed me up at the trial, and I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful today."

"Even in all that fancy new gear you aren't good enough with a blade yet to face Lorne," Isaviel stated, and Shandra nodded in acceptance.

"That's true, but I'm improving every day. Casavir is a willing and patient teacher, fortunately."

It was true enough that Isaviel had to accede those words with a nod, spinning her kukris in her hands and glancing at Shandra's impressed expression at her little tricks. An idea occurred to her, but she had her curiosity to sate first. They had quite some time until the dawn.

"Do you not want to return to your life as a farmer? Can't you persuade your new friend Sir Nevalle to build you a new barn?"

"He did offer me the money for it," Shandra admitted, "But I refused. The harvest season is over and winter is on its way. And what's to say the Giths wouldn't come after me again as soon as I was out of your protection? They said they'd stopped hunting you, not that they'd stopped searching for the rest of this silver sword you're getting together. It might be that they need me to get into Haven, even if it's not with a pint of blood. I want to be able to defend myself against them and I want to help your cause because what the Luskans want is unfair and you'll be safer once you have all the shards."

"You're very certain of that," the Moon Elf pointed out, "I for one have no idea what it will mean once I've got all the pieces I can of this silver sword, or what good it will do me to get to Haven. But…I'm glad to have you with me. And though you can't be my champion, perhaps you could help me practice to pass the time?"

Isaviel stood, taking up both her kukris and twirling them about herself, easily falling into the steps that were so familiar to beginning weapon training. An arc, a twist, a spin, a lunge, a run and a flip. Shandra was gawping at her when she landed on two feet, but stood with a half-smile and drew her shortsword.

"Alright. But something tells me I won't win."

Isaviel laughed at that, momentarily sheathing her kukris to twist her hair back into a bun. She had never practiced with Shandra before and knew it could be interesting. Khelgar, Casavir and Duncan often did, and they fought in a very different way from the Moon Elf.

"Yes, but you wouldn't want me to go easy on you, would you?"

When Sir Nevalle came to collect Isaviel at the dawn he found the Moon Elf seated ready upon the bench by the statue, Shandra asleep on the bedroll. The candles and the fire had both grown cold and the early rays of sunlight were attempting to peer through the dark, thick clouds that had come creeping in through the night.

"It is time," he stated simply as Shandra sat up blearily.

The Moon Elf stood with an expressionless nod, her weapon belt already buckled around her hips. Only moments earlier she had quaffed the potions Sand had given to her, and she could already feel their effects. She felt just that little bit stronger and steadier, her movements surer.

"Torio and Lorne await you on the field. Nasher wished to communicate the importance of this battle both for you and for Neverwinter," the knight of the Neverwinter Nine added.

"Really. This is a battle for my life," Isaviel told him sourly, "And your lord's 'fair city' turned against me at the last. For all I know, he would prefer that I lose."

"This is a great honour, to fight for your homeland. It is indeed for Neverwinter that you fight, because it is widely known that the Luskans have set you up here, no matter how much…esteem your character is held in by the people."

"I have no homeland," she corrected him icily now that Shandra had collected herself and taken a stance by her side, "And I have no honour. Now take me to the tourney grounds, and let's get this over with."

Shandra had been right; winter was drawing in. But first they had to contend with the chill sting of the relentless autumn rain, tinkling audibly on Lorne's plate metal pauldrons even across the distance of the tourney grounds. The crowd members were shivering violently under the awnings in the two tiered stands which, facing each other, ran the length of the rectangular stretch of worn grass. No one had trodden that earth yet, but Isaviel did not doubt it was deceptively unmarred by the rain. Every wrong step would be a death trap in this weather. At least they had removed the barrier ordinarily raised between two charging knights at the joust in tourneys; the combat that was about to be fought was different by far from the sports of the highborn.

Grobnar was strumming tunelessly on his lyre, peering down over the wall of the stand where it curved by Isaviel's waiting spot. Most of her companions were arrayed near him, some staring across the grounds to Lorne, others looking to the Moon Elf. Duncan and Sal had come as well, uncomfortable in the jostling crowd and looking strange to her eyes in their dark 'best clothes' which they had unearthed for this event – as had all of the others. They were surrounded by the richer members of society, though relegated to the places for the least affluent people invited to the combat. Casavir looked particularly handsome in his black velvet doublet – but the colours they had all chosen also looked like they had come to mourn, not to cheer her on.

"Good luck out there, Isaviel," Shandra told her from her place by the Moon Elf's side, wrapped tightly in a thick cloak.

"I'll do my best," Isaviel muttered absently, trying to stamp the mud from her boots to no avail as Lord Nasher, Sir Nevalle and Reverend Judge Oleff Uskar were all announced in a ringing tone that only just cut through the howling wind.

"May the combatants enter the arena," Nasher called and for the second time in two days Isaviel's path was laid out before her by the opening of a barred gate.

"It's times like this that I feel like your squire," Shandra sighed as the Moon Elf passed her cloak to her along with the pack containing the shards.

"Well maybe after this you can be," Isaviel managed a wink, glancing at the bag containing the shards and sharing a pointed look with Shandra, "Take good care of those for me. If I do die today, don't let the Luskans have them."

With that she stepped through the open doorway into the tourney grounds to the jeers and excited shouts of the crowd. If she survived this she would be famous throughout Neverwinter, she realised. Her tunic was already soaked through without her cloak, and it was all she could do to stop her teeth chattering in the cold. She could hear Duncan and Neeshka urging her on as she approached Lorne, and she was careful to keep eye contact with the great brute whose sneer would have her believe that he did not fear her. If that were truly the case, then he was a fool. She had to believe that instead as they met at the centre of the field, the grass squelching audibly beneath his heavy boots, leaving deep uneven prints all the way back to the now closed gate through which he had stepped.

"You're a small thing, Elf," he noted in a deep, growling voice, hefting his great falchion so that its broad blade sang in the rain, droplets glancing off its surface to glint red, "I'll snap you like a twig."

Isaviel smirked at his words, resting her hands on the hilts of her kukris, gripping firmly to try to combat the rain which made them so slippery. He was more than a foot and a half taller than her, probably three times her weight, but Sand's potions had fortified her and she felt no need to retort to Lorne's goads.

"The two combatants have observed the Rite of Tyr and prepared themselves for this battle," Nasher proclaimed from his central seat in the stand to Isaviel's right, "May Tyr bless this day and grant us a just victor. Ready yourselves in these last moments."

"Fight!" someone in the crowd yelled out.

"You may begin," Oleff called.

Lorne's falchion was far larger and longer than a normal blade of its type with an arced end which resembled a hammer. He wielded it two handed, and its red sheen betrayed its enchantment. Isaviel was ready for his first swing, ducking low and touching one knee to the ground, pushing off as hard as she could at the same time as unsheathing her kukris in order to dodge his reversed swing. She heard the crowd gasp as she feinted a roll, sending Lorne lunging in the wrong direction as she stood straight again.

Flicking her left arm around, she deftly cut through the fastenings of his right pauldron, causing it to swing and screech loudly against his chainmail tunic, spraying rain droplets in an arc around him, limiting his right arm's movement. With a growl he span around, aiming a backhand her way, forcing her to duck again, only this time her other kukri snapped out even as he moved to defend himself, cutting upward beneath his arm and drawing blood. It barely seemed to bother him and he advanced towards her even as she danced away, wiping the rain from her eyes, but the blood trickled visibly down to his elbow.

Lorne's next swing came a little too quickly for Isaviel's liking, his footsteps far steadier on the slick ground than she wanted, as well. The blade hummed through the air barely an inch above her face as she arched backward, sheathing one kukri and pressing her freed palm against the wet earth to allow her to kick upwards and spring. Her boot collided satisfyingly with his chin, forcing his head to snap back so that he staggered. Somersaulting to right herself, she flicked a shuriken in his direction for good measure, but he seemed to have expected something of that ilk and brought his falchion up to deflect it. Catching the returning projectile, Isaviel was forced to spin away again…and again.

Their brutal dance continued for what felt like an eternity to the Moon Elf; he would swing and she would dodge, she would slash and draw a line of blood. He did not seem to slow, but rather to gain in momentum, and she was growing tired. Though blood ran from wounds in a dozen places from Lorne's body and he had been forced to tear free his pauldron, the rage and ferocity that he had begun with seemed to have doubled, not to have dimmed. She had to dare to do something risky, and she had to do it soon, before the effects of the potions wore off and she was too weak from fatigue.

Thus it was that when Lorne lunged next, the axe-shaped end of his blade aimed for her throat, Isaviel twisted only a little to one side, bringing up her right kukri in as hard a movement as she could to help deflect the blade. In that moment she felt the psionic power she had tried to learn to harness with Merring hum down her arms and heard but did not see how the kukri continued to rotate in one quick circle around the falchion, not listening to the crowd's amazed gasps. Instead, she used the advantage she had gained from jarring his motion and brought the heel of her freed hand up to his vulnerable shoulder, hearing a satisfying crunch as the two connected. He did flinch then, grunting in pain, and without looking she caught her falling kukri, using its gained momentum and cutting up and across. The great brute yelled then as his left hand was all but severed from his arm and the falchion swung into his right hand only. But he did not give up, fury seeming to take him over. Isaviel heard several familiar voices shout her name over the excited yells of the crowd, but she did not have time to dodge this time, too taken aback by her own instinctive actions.

Lorne gritted his teeth against the pain in his right shoulder, which crunched horribly as he moved it, and brought the pommel of his weapon up to collide with the back of the Moon Elf's head. Lights flashed at the back of Isaviel's eyes and pain shot blindingly through her skull as she stumbled forward and dropped to the earth. She could hear Sand and Neeshka shouting and shouting to her, warnings and desperate words, but they seemed so far away. There was only the fight for her life that mattered, not the fears of her loved ones.

Throwing herself onto her back Isaviel was forced to bring out a kukri to slow the descent of the wickedly sharpened end of the falchion, aimed for her throat yet again. The metal edges screeched against each other and the din of the crowd rang in her ears as Isaviel managed to roll away, leaving one kukri behind as she leapt to her feet. It was not just Lorne's blade that flashed red now, but also his eyes. The berserk rage Bishop spoke of. His left arm hung limp, pouring blood onto the wet ground, grass and mud churning around the berserker's feet as he moved, splashing red against his boots. Although he had been forced to drop his falchion because of his broken shoulder, he ran. And he ran at her.

Pain still echoing in her head, Isaviel closed her eyes, and the members of the crowd sucked in their breath collectively. They thought she had given up, stunned by the blow he had given her, but as Lorne reached her she became one with the cool rain and appeared to dissolve in the dim autumn air, forcing him to come up short, skidding on the slippery ground and falling to one knee.

Unseen, Isaviel vaulted backwards, sending a shuriken flying from each hand towards him as she returned to visibility. This time Lorne could not dodge and their serrated edges bit deep, one into his already injured shoulder and the other into his neck. The light in his eyes seemed to wane, and he fell to his other knee, rain droplets streaming down his face and dripping from his chin unchecked. A brief glance back towards where her friends were gathered showed Neeshka and Sand both leaning forward against the railing – which both were gripping hard – while Casavir had a restraining hand on Duncan's shoulder. Bishop had said he would be watching. Where was he? Then she saw him, and a shiver went up her spine, for he was just beyond the closed gate which had locked her into this place, perhaps permitted so close because of Shandra's innocent honesty. He wants the shards. There was no fear or even anxiety on his face. Just a deep frown and a threatening look, and he was moving closer to the blonde woman, her own eyes locked on Isaviel with intense, oblivious concern.

Pushing aside thoughts of her friends and allies, Isaviel approached quickly as Lorne fell onto his side in the dirt, blood flowing freely now. He watched her without expression as she picked up his dropped falchion and hefted it in both hands. The crowd had grown deadly still as the Moon Elf placed her foot on his chest and raised the weapon above his neck.

"You think you have won?" he spat, "You have won nothing! Garius lives, and he will not be stopped by the likes of you."

"Lorne Starling, do you yield?" Lord Nasher called into the ringing silence, glancing momentarily with evident satisfaction towards Torio whose face had turned white with rage.

"I…do," the fighter admitted in a growl.

"Do you wish to spare him, Isaviel Farlong?"

"I do not." And with those words, she forced the blade down with all the strength she had, severing his head and dropping the falchion by her feet as she stepped away, shaking with rage and exhaustion.

"Then justice has been served, and the accusers' champion is dead. Tyr has willed that you are not guilty," Oleff claimed, standing now, his face a non-judgmental mask, "You are free to go as you will."

Relief should have flooded through her, but instead she looked towards Bishop and at last understood. The crowd did not know whether or not to cheer, though many began to take up that cry. They had an unswerving confidence in Tyr's justice, evidently. But there was one more judgement Isaviel had to make, and it involved revenge.

The air was so cold, and the winds had not stopped howling all day. To add to it all, the waves not too far away from the roadside camp were crashing heavily and ceaselessly against the pebbled shore. She wondered how anyone could sleep in such conditions, but several of the guards around her were snoring contentedly on their bedrolls, more up and alert patrolling the camp, or gathered around the fire warming their hands and conversing in whispers. She did at least feel safe, and was learning to fear the flames less. In spite of the cold, she had not dared go near the campfire, however. Because of her fear, she had been allowed a bed a little out of the way from the rest of the camp, furthest from the road and behind a boulder or two. It should have been impossible for anyone to infiltrate far enough to reach her, should they have wished.

Rubbing at her eyes, the young woman sat up against the rock behind her…only to have her ensuing attempt to scream stifled by a hard, gloved hand. A slight, darkly cloaked figure pressed a knife to her throat with their free hand, rage evident in large eyes which glinted an odd, swirling grey in the moonlight. Momentarily they flashed gold when the fire grew bright enough to illuminate them properly.

"You informed on us," the hooded aggressor hissed, and the sound of the Moon Elf's voice made Alaine's heart still, "You wanted to believe we were guilty, just to see someone die for the destruction of your pathetic town, never seeing that the real murderers were the ones pretending to bow to your every need."

Alaine shook her head in desperate denial, fresh tears springing to her eyes. Though the knife remained at her throat, Isaviel allowed her to speak. The girl wondered why she did not expect her to scream – and wondered at herself for not doing so. There was something about the overt rage the Moon Elf displayed…it seemed real, yes, but too honest as well. It did not look at all like the cold calculating malice in the eyes of her imposter-self back at Ember, and at last Alaine understood.

"They threatened me. I have family in Waterdeep, and they threatened to kill them if I didn't say the things I did. Please, you have to believe me…"

"But you did believe I was guilty."

"I saw you. Or someone who looked like you. I had no reason to believe elsewise, even if the Luskans were threatening me," she admitted, and saw the rage flicker and begin to wane in Isaviel's eyes. The dagger moved away a little, "Please don't kill me. I won't tell anyone…"

"Ha! You've proven yourself easy to threaten, it's true," the Moon Elf sounded bitter, "Even if you do tell them I was here…there won't be any evidence. They will think you had a bad dream."

"But that wouldn't do your vengeful soul any good, would it?" a sarcastic male voice sneered, and the Moon Elf's head snapped around to regard the man approaching them, also hooded, a large bow strapped to his back.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, automatically clamping a hand over Alaine's mouth when the girl threatened to call for help, struggling briefly. The man frightened her far more than the Moon Elf ever could. There was evil in his eyes. It could have been him at Ember.

"Come to watch the show," he affected an innocent, hurt tone, "The vengeful, wronged hero come to kill the helpless little bitch there. The Hells know, she deserves it," his voice was a growl now as he looked to Alaine and she scrambled back, whimpering in fear against Isaviel's hand.

"Shut up," the Moon Elf spat at him, "This is my business."

"Oh? Is it? I recall that I was the one they tried to fill with arrows, all thanks to her pathetic little wagging tongue."

"And it was her words that meant I had to fight trial by combat, most likely," saying that, the Moon Elf brought up the dagger again, but her hand was shaking. Were her eyes full of tears?

"Do it," the man hissed, sounding so hopeful and cruel with those two simple words, "Do it. She deserves it."

The knife came no closer, however, and instead Isaviel's grip grew ever tighter on the hilt of the dagger, quivering visibly now, until with a frustrated gasp she pulled it away, sheathing it with a tell-tale ringing sound. Alaine relaxed a little then, though her attempts to pull free from the restraining gloved hand over her mouth proved fruitless. The Moon Elf's eyes were golden again when she dared to look back at the young woman, and she looked guilty and sad and utterly spent.

"You stupid bi…"

"Shut up," the Moon Elf told the raging man with a hiss, "They'll hear us."

With a derisive grunt he turned and vanished back into the darkness, and the Moon Elf slowly released Alaine.

"I can't apologise for my anger…and I won't," she admitted, "But I know how it feels to have your home destroyed, and to rely on unknown relatives in an unfamiliar city. I know how it feels to be hunted…but I also know how to defend myself."

Alaine watched Isaviel in silent confusion as the Moon Elf drew a dagger from her belt and offered it to the girl hilt first. Tentatively she took it, turning it over in her hands and watching it gleam silver and reflective in the faint light. She saw her own frightened blue eyes looking back at her for a second.

"If he ever comes after you, use that. Don't hesitate."

When Alaine looked up, Isaviel had gone, leaving her alone and shivering in the dark.