It was Violet's sixteenth birthday. Given the option, she might have preferred to celebrate it with expensive alcohol, exquisite food, and indolent diversion, but ash, blood, and death would have to do instead.

With cramping fingers, she jabbed at the black wood with her sword, one hand clenched halfway down the blade for leverage. Tiny chips flew, but the material was as hard as stone and twice as tough. Behind her, the sounds of a losing battle reached her: screams, shouted commands, the cacophonous thunder of conjured lighting … and ash fell, ash as white as snow.

It was their fourteenth day in the Other's homeland. One way or another, it would be their last.

~#~

Earlier.

The Other's lands were large, expanding in all directions like the skeletal remains of a burned-dry ocean bed. But the expedition was drawn by unspoken accord toward the center, toward the great tree Violet could only call this realm's Origin.

The success of Violet's plan was bittersweet. It meant that she could at last close her mind to the Other, but only at the cost of turning her back to Winter once more. Even with the very real risk of her mind coming undone entirely beneath the Other's assault, it was with only the greatest reluctance that she did what was necessary.

As Winter faded from her, the impression of a final message lingered. When they were next reunited, it would be time to cast the Other out at last and finish what was started on the bank of a bloody stream.

She had passed out for twelve hours straight when the connection was closed, her unconscious mind finally able to begin to repair the damage—the changes—inflicted by the Other. She awoke sharing Satria's horse, held steady with one slender arm. With a sense of nigh-irrational paranoia, she reviewed her own thoughts, recalling past events and their emotions, awaiting with trepidation the realization that she could no longer understand them, that she had been irreparably warped. The moment never came. Still, she felt … uneasy.

Fate's irony, perhaps, that I should be made to fear for my humanity so soon after professing to forsake it.

On their second day in the Other's land, they found the shadow of a city.

A shadow, for what remained could hardly be called more that, and the unforgiving sun made dark carve-outs of the ruined structures, as vivid as ink against the ash-dusted ground. Tumbled buildings were blackened by the sky's fire, others melted and twisted into curving masses under their own weight. They crossed through, and it was a most curious thing—the city had been vast, larger than anything in Winter or Summer, but it was strange in other ways too, more resembling something built by muggles than the fae. Cracked and melted roads were paved in a material that could only be tarmac. In other places, skeletal outlines of the crystal material remained, clearly once having been shaped like steel, standing tall even as the materials around it burned. Everywhere she looked, Violet could see signs of former industry, of a society that shaped their surroundings in a way the fae found aesthetically nonviable. Whatever beings had once called this place home, they were alien indeed.

Not a thing grew within the city or around it. The was a scent of brimstone and something else, sickly sweet and poisonous, and although no spell could identify anything amiss in the air, that only meant it was carried by something more fundamental than the wind. Someone, or something, had come here and sown the fields with salt.

There were bones in the rubble. Elongated and slender beyond anything human, bleached white and made brittle by the sun, some crushed or gouged by violence done long ago. The pallor of Death hung heavy, and as she walked the ruined streets, the sound of ghostly weeping crept into Violet's ears, ever without source and not truly sound. This land was a tomb, a monument of mourning for its own fate. No thing would call this place home again. Even its conquerors had not lingered.

It explained why the Other had gone in search of a new land, and why it had sought to twist the Reviled into something resembling its exterminated people. But it hardly mattered. Whoever had destroyed the Other's land had started the job, for reasons unknown and irrelevant. Violet would see it finished, one way or another.

They left the city beyond and pressed on. The tree grew larger.

Thirteen days later, Violet embarked upon her sixteenth year. The Origin loomed over all.

So tall it was that it seemed to reach above the sky. The earth rose and fell like a storm-tossed sea, pushed up by monstrous roots still thicker than a building even kilometers away from the tree's base. It was black, haloed by the broken sun, and so unfathomably grand that Violet couldn't begin to guess how many times larger it was than the Origin of the Wyld. But any grandeur it retained was overshadowed by sorrow. Its great branches were nearly totally barren of leaves, and rather than sway in the winds of distant infernos, it was as stiff and unyielding as stone.

As fragile, too?

Something warm splashed on the back of Violet's neck. Flinching, she reached back to feel it, a sticky, slimy liquid that smeared black-green over her fingers. She wrinkled her nose—it smelled rank, and she was not keen on finding out what the unpleasant consistency would do to her hair should another drop fall—but it didn't seem immediately harmful, not even irritating the skin.

As the bare branches grew more thickly woven overhead, the droplets grew more frequent, splattering into foul sprays. The ground here was deeply stained. The drops must have been falling for a long time.

Protego Enervo, Violet cast, generously straining herself to cover Satria as well, though not Maeve. Not a drop struck within a meter of her anyway.

"I believe the tree is the source," said Maeve, inhaling deeply. "It resembles … sap."

Violet couldn't resist. She raised an eyebrow and said, "Really? I had no idea it was normally so … rotten."

Maeve smiled faintly. "Sap is the blood of the tree. And I do believe someone has poisoned it."

The ground beneath the tree was scarred by more than the sun. Craters, sandy soil fused solid, and twisted crystal armor lay half-buried beneath ash and dirt. With a snap, Violet's mind rose of its accord, stretching into the unfamiliar shape of an unfamiliar memory, and she saw this Origin as it had once been, adorned with thousand-color flowers and glinting like diamond. Around it, thousands had stood beneath the cracking sun, against an enemy that was shadowed and smeared, an indistinguishable tide drawing a curtain over life itself. Shaking her head and returning to the present, she scanned the ground more closely. The last of the Other's people had fallen here, but it seemed they did so alone. No sign of their enemy remained. If any had perished, the dead had left with the living.

A narrow path wound around the immense roots, which were now thrice the height of a man, and turned the final approach to the tree into a labyrinthine trek, drawn out over hours. But reach the trunk they did.

The trunk was so thick it was virtually impossible to tell it was part of a greater thing. Its curve could barely be seen. Maeve gestured, taking half of the remaining fae around the left of the tree while Violet, Jon, and Satria walked right. Before long, the other group was out of sight, occluded by the tree. It must be a hundred meters wide or more.

"I thought I was used to this kind of thing by now," said Jon in a tone of wonder. "Whole worlds. It's hard to believe most normal people never even know they exist."

"Not just mortals," said Satria. "It was thought that the Distant Lands led to nothing but oblivion. This … knowledge that there are places beyond will change things. Maeve's dreams of empire are outlandish, of course, but one cannot help but wonder. It is not the nature of Winter to wander, but it is to conquer."

"And none of that will matter if the Other manages to turn the Wyld into a knockoff crystal forest," Violet put in. She tilted her head, a cool shiver tracing over her spine. "Besides … we know there's something else out here somewhere, something worse, something that did this. If Winter does go a-wandering, it might not be us doing the conquering."

She stopped, holding up her hand to still the others as well. "There's something—something close." She strained, feeling through her connection with the Other for its own link to this place, but it was a thousand times harder with her having closed herself to Winter. It was only the echo of an echo, but the original sound was so deafening that she could hear it still. She exhaled slowly. "Whatever it is, it's important. More important than anything we've found out here."

"Exciting," said Jon. "I just love this freaky psychic shit. If that thing possesses you and chops me into bits, you owe me double."

Violet smirked and shook her head. They continued around the trunk, and at last, there it was. It was a figure, kneeling, little more than an impression from this distance. A heady cocktail of emotion washed over Violet, potent even with the extra layer of separation from the Other. Had she not withdrawn from Winter again, it could have been completely debilitating. Fear, wrath, anguish, sorrow—nausea?—oh, what was done to you here, my foe?

They approached the figure, as unmoving as a sculpture. And, indeed, so it appeared to be. It was made of a black, shiny substance that could have been obsidian were it not for its sheen of unnatural color. It was not human. It was not one of the Other's people. It was something else entirely.

It had two arms and two legs, but there the all semblance of the natural ended. It had no head but hundreds of eyes and gaping, toothy mouths, randomly distributed over its unclothed body, which was smooth and formless with no distinguishable muscle, bone, or sex. It was in a kneeling position, its leg bent smoothly rather than at a knee. Frozen in a lunge, its hands were pressed to the tree. For a moment, taking in the sight of it, Violet was struck nearly faint by a wave of irrational terror, passing only once she realized it originated from the Other. So that was what the creature was.

"It did it," she breathed, walking nearer, drawn by something between reverence and disgust. "It killed the world. I wonder why its allies left it here. Unless …"

Unless there was only one.

And then Violet felt fear of her own, for this was something else. Something wrong. Something worse than anything else, worse than the darkest nightmare anyone had dreamed. Dead, yes, but could something so perfectly evil—and that was not a word she used lightly—ever truly end?

There are no immortals, she told herself, but for the first time she did not quite believe it. Somehow, she knew, there could be no fighting this foe. There could be no victory, no glorious cause. You could only hide.

Horror.

But approach she must, for somehow this thing had dealt a nearly mortal blow to the Other, and it with Esrid were a more imminent threat than a horror of her imagination. Its hands were grasped around something, she could see now—a dagger. It was plunged into the tree, piercing deep, but not to the hilt. Whatever had ended the creature must have struck before it could drive the blade to the quick.

She shivered as she drew nearer, and as she did she vowed that should she prevail over her enemies, should against all odds she live to enjoy the ageless eons that were promised to her, she would not rest. Should every battle be won, should every higher and lower thing come know peace, she would not rest. In her pursuit of esoteric mystery and limitless power, she would never falter. For as long as there lived any thing, any idea, which she could still fear, she would not rest.

There were limits upon all. Mortals were chained by their fleeting lifetimes; fae by their nature. She had cheated the former and avoided the latter. Why should she imagine anything was beyond her? Should the day come, she would find victory where the Other met only ruin.

There are no immortals. She believed it, now.

Violet took a final step toward the still thing and dared to run a finger over its smooth surface, lightly tracing what could be called its cheekbone. Faintly, she smiled at the awful thing.

"An obscenity," Satria proclaimed simply.

Only an inch of metal was visible between the dagger's hilt and where it dug into the tree. Its black surface gleamed as if slick with oil, harsh sunlight broken into smoothly organic shapes all tinged a toxic green. Where the blade had bit, the bark was a spongy, rotten texture, peeling back to reveal wood turned stiff and dead, streaked by spiderwebs of green, like veins of infected blood. Streaks of green-black stain ran down the wood to where it curved into the beginning of a root, which was scalded as if by a corrosive potion. A fat, heavy drop gradually gathered along the bottom edge of the knife and fell, slowly rolling down the wood.

The blade was envenomed, with a substance so virulent it still wept from the cold metal that contained it, still seeped into the ancient life it had been sculpted to slay. Violet remembered touching the poison, which must have tainted every inch of the tree. It hadn't harmed her or the fae. It was a weapon fit for a single purpose, so masterfully devised as to end an immortal above immortals.

It wasn't plunged deeply enough. It must not have killed the Other immediately … How long did the Other wither here, alone among the bones of its people, slow venom seeping into its heart? How near had it come to true death when Esrid found it?

This is what we came here for. All that was lost was for this.

Violet dismissed the possibility of using magic to free the dagger, the Weapon. The nature of the poison was impossible to discern, but its clearly supernatural power made her hesitant to expose it to any magic when the result could be anything from neutralization to mutual annihilation. Instead she drew her sword, angling it against the nearly petrified wood squeezing down on the thin blade.

"I'm going to cut it out," she said.

She rested one hand on the trunk for leverage. Her mind exploded in agony.

It was as if all the information of a universe were being forced through her, a blistering whirlwind of thought and memory making up a whole that could be neither perceived nor understood. Reflexively, she sought to stem the tide, to smooth her thoughts into a perfect void, but her efforts were for naught. Screaming, she fell back, falling the ground and staring up at the burning sky, with nothing left to do but endure.

Had her mind not been shaped by her struggle against the Other, hardened by conflict and inured against the incomprehensible, she could not have survived. As it was, the assault seemed to be endless, and it was not even a deliberate attack. Something was being pulled through her, drawn by an incalculable attraction, drawn to the Origin she had so briefly touched.

Minutes—hours?—passed, in truth only seconds. Violet struggled to her feet, furiously shaking her head to fight her splitting headache, knowing time was running out. Satria called out to her, but the words were foreign to her confused mind. She gathered up her sword and viciously struck the tree near the Weapon, striking free a tiny chip. Again she thrust, and again, gasping at the effort. It was like trying to cut granite.

"… get … Queen." Fragments of speech were percolating through now, the fragmented world around her slowly drawing back together. She didn't slow her efforts.

"He's—" Violet bit off her sentence, unable to form the words she thought. Stab. Stab. "He's—he's—he's here."

The rasp of steel sliding over leather rang out as the fae around her drew weapons, sensing the threat that had not yet revealed itself. Jon was gone—to inform Maeve?—but could he be in time?

A breeze blew. Upon it was the scent of ash mixed with pine needles.

Slowly, a cold pit in her stomach, Violet turned. Standing twenty paces away was a man. No less than nine feet tall, he was painfully slender and elongated, waxen of complexion and standing with a curiously curved posture. His features were dignified, sharp, and his eyes were the frosty blue of Winter. Slowly, he turned to Violet, to Satria, and to the smooth black thing that had killed this world.

The Enemy, said Esrid who was the Other.

Power rolled off him—it?—in throbbing waves, turning the air chokingly thick and rich. He stood relaxed, bearing no weapon, but his presence was no less threatening for it. He seemed to regard the statue with more weight than the blades and magic before him combined.

Violet edged sideways, joining the others in beginning to fan out around the Other into a near semicircle. Seeing him, seeing the foe who had tormented her given shape and form, something clicked, and the fog over her thoughts lifted. Esrid's eyes flashed stark, glowing white and turned from the

Impressive, Violet. I did not anticipate this outcome. I grieve; I had hoped to grant you new life, but you turned from the light. Now you shall feel only its burning gaze.

Violet drew the Elder Wand.

A thing of Power. But not enough.

That's good for you, Violet thought forcefully. You see, it isn't life I intend to grant you. But it doesn't matter, really, does it? Even if you win, if you kill us all and twist the Wyld into something unrecognizable, it won't be enough, will it? It won't replace what you lost. You will be king of a world of painted puppets adorned with faces you once knew. And you—what are you? An idea, or a man? You're a god fallen from grace who's fighting a war that's already lost and a man who never see the beauty of his land until it was taken from him.

All semblance of expression vanished from Esrid's face. No. The Other, now. He raised his right hand, and everyone tensed.

A melodious voice heavy with contempt interrupted. "O Brother, how I have yearned for this moment of our reuniting. How I have regretted my ill-considered actions so long ago, when I turned you out to the cold. I should have known better, dear Brother! If only I could turn back time, I would keep you close—like a pet. Of course, you were such a troublemaker your tongue would have to go—and your fingers, lest you write your treacheries, and your legs so you wouldn't stray. You could keep your cock. You never knew what to do with it anyway."

"Sister," said Esrid, speaking aloud for the first time, his voice a volcanic rumble. The Other seemed to recede for the moment. "If I could do things again, I would change not a thing."

Maeve had arrived with Jon and her complement of fighters—though less than she had left with, to Violet's eye; where were the others?—and she spun a curious, curved knife in her hands, one that had neither the translucency of Winter's ice nor the high sheen of alchemical silver. Her hair trailed in the wind like a bloodstained pennant.

Her lips curled into a sly smile. "I should be thanking you. I'd thought this would be more complicated."

Esrid looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. "We will have our reckoning in time, Sister. But not today … you see … in flesh I am bound still, and while here I stand, my Power does not." A ripple ran through Esrid's form, and the sky behind him began to shine through. "But I was once master of this place. And my children remain."

His clenched fist rose to the sky, then slowly curled open. He wore a small, solemn smile as he faded to nothing. Slowly, one by one, colorful objects began to flutter by.

The last leaves of the Origin were falling.

~#~

The world of the Other was already dying. Now, its master had driven a final thrust into its heart.

Strips of fire peeled from the broken sun, stretching like hot caramel until they burst on distant horizons into gargantuan bursts of white. The earth rumbled and shook. And the leaves rained down, down, down.

But even as the world died, so too did it rise for a final time. At first it was indistinguishable from the tremors in the ground, but then the earth and ash began to shift, and skeletal claws rose from ignominious burial, the last warriors to die in defense of their Origin returned to preside over its destruction. The shade of Esrid floated among them, aligning them into formation as they gathered their fallen weapons of worked crystal and, ominously, iron, for the Other's people had once worked the materials of their world as the muggles did and shared their predilection for the metal. No wonder it was that the Reviled remade in the Other's image had such a talent for industry.

If they had once wielded magic, it did not appear to return to them in undeath. But in the distance, endless columns of tiny black figures marched closer, and even if they could be defeated in pitched battle, the world would surely burn away first.

Maeve watched the enemy forces dispassionately, as if she could still somehow delude herself that this expedition had not been folly, that they would ever see the forests and icy lakes of Winter again. Or perhaps she had nothing to fear. Perhaps she had been so taken by the role she played that there was nothing left within her.

Led to oblivion by a woman already dead. Fate has a fae's love of cruelty.

"We have a problem," said Maeve.

"You think?" said Violet, bitterly mocking.

"Indeed. But not the one you mean." She pointed. "Satria, I left some of your warriors on the far side of the tree when the mortal man informed me of Esrid's arrival. They won't have a chance on their own. Toluk, Evyria"—she pointed at two wearing her livery—"go with whomever Lady Satria sees fit to send and relieve her forces."

Satria blinked at Maeve's uncharacteristic generosity and commanded the last of her battered Knights to do as Maeve suggested. It was a long shot, but hardly worse than the chances of even a single member of the expedition making it out of this cursed world. They departed in good order, leaving only Satria, Maeve, Jon, and perhaps ten of Maeve's cohort. Already, no less than a thousand were arrayed against them.

"Good," Maeve snapped. "I promise all of you this now: I will do everything in my power to see you escape this trap, whatever the cost. But you must follow my commands closely if we are to have a chance."

A stunned silence followed her words. Fae could not lie nor break an oath plainly stated. Maeve had just obligated herself to sacrifice her life for the others present—even her own fae. It was inconceivable.

That is not the act of a Queen lost to her crown. The thought stuck, bothering Violet despite the dire circumstances. She shook her head—if they somehow got out of this, she could ponder it later. For now, battle called.

"Very well," said Satria, even her voice filled with wonder. "I await your command, my Queen."

"Indeed," Maeve said softly, slowly. She elegantly pointed toward the distant silhouette of Esrid. "He must die. It is his power alone that sustains his people's undeath, and it will be his breaking that will bring about their undoing and make possible our swift withdrawal. We need the dagger. Violet, take your mortal friend and secure it. Understand well that such a weapon will respond only in the hands of one suitable to … empower it. I believe you understand."

The last being to seek the Other's death still knelt, immortal in death, the dagger it had buried into its enemy grasped in its cold hands. Yes, Violet understood.

"Such a measure may be unnecessary," she replied coolly. "There is a mortal curse of … conceptually absolute murder. I have not yet encountered a life it cannot bring to a conclusion."

"I am more familiar with the curse of which you speak than you might guess. It ends a single life, does it not? Tell me—how many lives reside in the form of my brother? One? Two? Which to your deathly curse would fall? And is something so vast and fundamental as this Other alive at all, or something else, something akin to the lifeless vitality of the wind and sun? Attempt it if you wish, but retrieve the dagger first. Should all else fail, I know you will do what must be done. By your own hand or … otherwise."

Her eyes flicked toward Jon. Violet pursed her lips. But a distant rumble like thunder reached them, and ash stirred into a great cloud beneath stomping feet as the enemy lines began to advance. She nodded.

"It will be done."

"This pleases me. Satria, we will make our stand here."

They, along with Maeve's fae, made their preparations. Twisting their hands through graceful, intricate patterns, they conjured forth ice from the burned ground, nearly black in color. It was then twisted into something resembling a patch of briars, though each thorn was as long and sharp as a knife. Spikes rose too to catch unwary feet, and the temperature within the barrier was so cold that Violet could feel the heat seeping away where she stood.

In this moment of desperation, Satria and Maeve's animosity had fallen away, both of them acting in perfect concert. Violet could almost imagine them as they supposedly were, Queen and her second, allied in the name of Winter and united in purpose. Perhaps—just perhaps—Maeve was one problem that could be resolved in a way other than bloodshed.

"Let's go," she said curtly to Jon, jogging back toward the Enemy—as Esrid had called it. Its fingers were still far too tight around the Weapon for it to be extracted, and as resilient as the material of the tree was, she wasn't willing to find out what might happen should the Enemy be damaged. Grasping her sword firmly, she thrust forward, knocking another tiny chip from the wood.

Heh. Happy fucking birthday.

Behind her, the first boom of thunder reached her. The second chip freed was larger.

~#~

With a final, furious grunt, Violet smashed the blade of her sword down on the loosened Weapon with such force that the steel bent, warped beyond any repair. The Weapon, not so much as scratched, at last flew free. Absently, Violet stared at the ruined blade of her sword, given to her by Satria so long ago, her old companion who stayed true while others came and went.

It had given her everything she could ask of a weapon. Perhaps … perhaps it was fitting it should be sundered now.

A clarion cry rang out—in pain or wrath, Violet couldn't say. Satria?

Violet picked up the Enemy's blade. Its triangular cutting edge was utterly and entirely dark.

"Give me the dagger, Violet," said Jon. His voice had a calmness to it she had never heard before. He too understood the weapon's nature.

Her fingers played over the black blade. Light that fell upon it did not gleam. The envenomed metal devoured all it touched, a hungry void, a power beyond its humble confines. Yes. This is a weapon fit to slay a god.

"No," Violet replied, and she pleasantly surprised to realize her voice was the same. "Not you too." She offered him a wry smile. "You were the first, you know. The first friend I ever had."

"Don't do this. Please, don't do this. Merlin, you're—fuck. It's your birthday, isn't it?"

Violet laughed and rose, and flipped the Weapon into a reverse grip. The Elder Wand was in her left hand. "I knew someone would remember. Listen, Jon—ah, damn it, you know everything I could say. Do something about Voldemort, won't you, if this doesn't go the easy way? I wouldn't feel right leaving him around. And check in on Sirius. He'll need a good friend."

"He needs you."

The fondness trailed from her voice, and her features became as set as iron. "He may. But he has his purpose, and I have mine. I am the champion of Winter. I am the Lady in Iron. I am the cold wind. And I will protect my home."

Violet stood and breathed deep, breathed the tainted air, and she felt Winter return to her. Ecstatic magic flooded through her veins, and blue sparks danced about her fingers. She had never felt so alive.

The parasite, the trick the Other had played on her, now burned up like dry paper. Perhaps it was the god-killing blade she held in her hand that cut the connection. Perhaps seeing the Other in the flesh, confronting it, had broken its spell over her. Or perhaps Winter had merely had the time it needed to find a way to destroy it. She was free.

She had been here twice before. Once in a labyrinth of secrets with a good friend, once beside a river with a friend dead behind her. Twice Winter had seemed closer to hand than ever before, and twice she had reached out in search of something, that pinnacle of pinnacles that Winter had translated as apotheosis. The first time, her reach had been too short, her grasp of Winter's magic too unrefined. The second time, the Other had exploited Winter's unpreparedness and poisoned the act. But now all was perfect.

Thrice before I am done. I am ready, Winter.

TOGETHER, Winter promised.

With every step, her power grew. Winter, so far away, was as present as it could possibly be without possessing her as the Other had Esrid. Perhaps the power it could lend him would still be greater than Winter could match even should she crest this final peak. But she was more than that shameful blight of a fae. She had known her fate would be a daunting one since she was a child, never having she faltered. She was mortal, and beside Winter a second power accompanied her. The Elder Wand shivered in sympathy with the echoes of decay within Winter's presence.

And this was not a true contest, either. The Other's power was diminished in this shade-form, its true presence still separated by something more than distance. Oh, you may not be here, thought Violet, but Death will find you all the same.

Ahead, the battle awaited. Mist and smoke clouded the details, but the indistinct shapes of bodies left dangling on barbs of ice spoke of the defiance of both Satria and Winter's Queen. Violet approached. The world cracked beneath her feet. The horizon was a line of fire, and to Violet's left and right vast sections of ground crumbled inward, collapsing into vast abysses leading places unknown. With the slightest exertion of thought she reached out, and ice crawled from her feet through the earth a kilometer in every direction, and here, at least, the shuddering stilled.

Close.

CLOSE.

Violet thrust her hand into the air, and high above, the stark sky began to darken with black clouds. The sun's fire waned, suffocated by cold, and the arid wind endemic to this place was overcome by one of bitterest frost. More than anything, she longed to take a far step, to emerge in the thick of the fighting and carve her way through the reanimated enemy until their puppetmaster revealed himself. But Bellatrix's spiteful curse remained, for the darkest of mortal arts could defy even Winter's powers at their zenith. She only wished to bring this to its end. Even another moment of anticipation was suddenly unbearable.

Closer.

CLOSER.

"Esrid!" she called, her booming across the field of battle. A gale crashed over her, her dress snapping around her like a taut banner. "Oh, Prince of Winter, how low you fell. Come. Face me. Face Winter!"

With every minute, the blanket of white spread further over the land, invading it as the Other had dared invade Winter. She was close. So close, mere moments away from the moment of transcendence. A laugh escaped her, high and delighted—so trivial her mortal regrets now seemed. What did the lives of fireflies matter when the true game was played by gods?

Ahead of her, the terrible figure that was once Esrid appeared. Flickering, faded, sustained only by the last dregs of power of this land, and that devoted to the dead warriors he had raised, there was nevertheless a terrible sense of alien threat to him. But he was not so invincible, not so untouchable, for Violet had seen the Enemy that even a god could fear. And she taken its venom for her own.

"There are no immortals," she told Esrid. "Not even you."

He cocked his head and smiled faintly. Then his gaze fell on the Weapon. His expression faded, becoming as blank as the Distant Lands at their worst, and slowly he began to fade even further. Now it was him who sought to flee.

"No you don't," muttered Violet, clenching her hand around the Weapon. Esrid solidified once more. "We finish this today."

She knew not what magic she had cast, whether of Winter or the Weapon itself, but Esrid's eyes widened momentarily—definitely Esrid, that time. Then the expressionless void returned, and he became vivid, fully materializing at last. Behind him, Violet could see movement—his legions had collapsed. So he thinks he needs the Origin's strength for himself.

Violet liked that.

A surge of Winter magic arose within her, coming of its own accord, and she opened her mouth and blew. A black-streaked gale rushed forth, buffeting Esrid. As he lowered his head against the wind, she jabbed the Elder Wand and whispered, "Fortis Lancea!"

Though the Other—certainly it was the Other—worked no visible magic, the mighty lance vanished inches from its emerald flesh.

It shook its head, slowly, as if mimicking the gesture rather than understanding it. No. Not today.

So it could still speak to her without voice. Because of the way her mind had been reshaped, or simply because it chose to? It didn't really matter.

Violet laughed. She felt weightless, as if she were about to take flight. "Look around you!" she said, gesturing to the now-blinding blizzard that had gathered. "You already tried to escape. It's just you and me."

Once more Winter rose up, and she merely pointed a finger, a ray of black springing forth. This time the Other reacted visibly, twitching its head almost imperceptibly, and the streak of magic slammed to a stop against an invisible wall with a sound like a scream. Violet advanced, the Weapon grasped tightly in hand.

"Actually," said Maeve, stepping out of the storm, her hair like blood on the white, "you're not. Hello again, Brother. Violet, what say you we bring an end to his exile? We return his remains to be interred in Winter, as befits its son."

"Yes," said another voice. Violet twisted—Jon. "That sounds like a very good idea to me."

Violet grinned. Even the thought of what likely awaited her couldn't taint this moment. If only Satria were here—no, it was better she was not. If there was a reason to regret what might be necessary, it was her. But she was also all the more reason to do it.

That eternal youth always was a long-shot.

"You're looking a mite outnumbered," said Violet lightly, still advancing. The Other cocked its head.

You may wish to count again.

She snickered. "Come on, you can't expect me to fall for that. What's next, 'Look out behind you?' "

Look out behind you.

Danger, her premonition warned. She dismissed it; obviously, there was danger.

Within her, Winter soared for a final time. It felt like taking a breath that never ended. She was nearly there, could feel her weight slipping away, her heels rising up, the ultimate expression of her nature at hand. And her enemy was reduced to nothing more than feeble trickery.

"Can't say I expected you to have a sense of humor. Impressive, I guess. Actually—"

I did warn you.

A curiously cold sensation was emanating from Violet's chest, crossing from her spine to her sternum. She glanced down and blinked, seeing a tiny, gleaming point piercing out from her dress. With a slick sound, the point vanished and Violet let out a tiny gasp as all her strength left her.

She stumbled but was caught by gentle arms. Soft strands of hair tickled the back of her neck, and when Violet turned, she saw they were red. Maeve looked back at her and pressed a single finger to Violet's lips, smearing them with her own blood as it filled her mouth. Delicately, Maeve took the Weapon from Violet's helpless grip.

Violet stared up at her in horror, unable to draw the breath she needed to shout a warning to Jon, who was still circling to flank the Other. Maeve's lips twitched. "That would be the iron I stabbed you with you're feeling. Don't misunderstand, now. I'm not working with him. I merely have an … alternate candidate for the wielder of that dagger. It's always a pleasure to solve two problems at once. Oh, and one more thing you should know:" Finally, at last, all the deception fell away from her face, and Violet knew she was truly looking at the Queen of Winter for the first time since they departed on their expedition. Her voice brimmed with naked joy. "I drank from a golden cup, Violet. I have stolen a lying soul."

With that, Maeve shoved Violet forward, finally revealing her betrayal to Jon, and to her dazed confusion, Violet heard her, a Winter fae—the Winter fae—croon, "Crucio!"—a wand?—and Jon began to scream. As Violet fell, the welcoming snow rushing up to embrace her in her weariness, a line of red spread just over it, parting like a zipper and revealing—Winter?

Through the hole in reality Violet fell, her vision darkening around her, feeling her lifeblood warm her skin. Distantly, she was aware of a line of pain shooting through her right arm as bone shattered, and she knew that although all had gone awry, she was yet fortunate in one thing: it was in her left hand that the Elder Wand was yet grasped.

~#~

She found herself by a river, coursing swiftly. Pine trees rustled in a gentle wind. The ground was covered in snow, as soft as a blanket. Maeve had sent her home to die.

It was almost kind.

With a final effort, one last gasp of dying strength, Violet rolled over to look at the sky. It was night, and the stars were more brilliant than she had ever seen.

An oddly straight twig was jammed into the snow next to her. It was … familiar.

No. No! All at once her fury boiled up, a fiery resolve to survive, to avenge herself against so many who still dared to live, but it was lacking. Winter could not help her, not when iron had pierced her breast. To die by treachery was bad enough. She could accept Maeve's cunning, her ability to escape the fetters of her nature … but to die here?

She knew that twig. And even now, even when it was meant as mockery, it brought a strand of foolish hope.

She knew it well. It was Dumbledore's wand.

Darkness came, and with it, despair.

~#~

The cloak was silk-smooth, delightfully soft to the touch, and shimmered like moonlight. She took it from the little huntress's pocket and drew it up around her neck so that Death would not find her.

Laid out on the snow, the huntress's face was white, her heart still. But Death would not come for her. She brushed a strand of hair out of the huntress's eyes and softly sighed. There was but one more thing to do.

"The sweetener," Cat breathed, sliding a ring onto Violet's finger. "My promise, kept."

With a swaying stride, Cat left the little Master where she lay, humming a forgotten song to herself. With the tip of her tongue, she toyed with razor teeth. There would be a stir for this, oh yes, old and dry bones roused to fury at her meddling. Old Death would not take a stunt this blatant kindly, but he wouldn't have her yet. She had more lives to live. One less soon, but that was what they were for. Besides, she had known the beginning-end was near since the moment the little huntress carved out her eye. Beauty that vicious was well worth dying for.

It had been likewise worth buying time with the Summer-man's fate for this. It felt good to pull a big one over the stodgy setters of the rules. Salty, blood-on-the-tongue, roll-in-the-grass good. A cat balances the scales and waits for the chance to topple them entirely.

"A sweetener for a friend … I hope you know now that I do not believe in chains."

With a final flash of farseeing orange, Cat took a step, not upon the snow but through it and through the gray below. Down past nothing to what lay beyond.

For a cat goes where she pleases, Violet my huntress, and one beginning andone end seems so few.

And until my tales are nine, it is not the cat who dies but the universe she knew.

Remember me, and above all, remember you.

Presently, Cat found herself Elsewhere, yawned, stretched, and blew a raspberry at Death. She hadn't miscounted after all.

AN:

Well, it's finally time. I am currently holding a vote for the premise of my next fanfiction on my Discord server. Anyone can vote, so make your preference heard. The voting will consist of two rounds due to the high number of options, with more details available on the server. The first round closes August 1st, so don't wait too long.

Join here: discord . gg / HfyNqfMqfJ

The second announcement pertains to my P atreo n. In order to give a benefit to those who are generous enough to offer their support, I have begun posting my ongoing original webnovel Salt there. The first eight chapters are free for anyone to read, so check it out if you're interested in original dark contemporary fantasy. Here's the description:

A grand colonial home stands vigil against the northern wilderness, curiously unaffected by decades of neglect. A sister seeks answers about a power that defies logic and the unanswerable questions around her parents. A brother struggles to find his place in the world and can't seem to stop hurting those around him. A rich tapestry of conspiracy and places beyond hides within the rolling fog, where words are law and wolves howl at the door. One mistake leads to another, and the siblings are thrown adrift on uncaring winds. The stakes are high, the rules unclear. But the game has begun, and it's already too late to run. Fortitudo in astrum.

Salt will probably eventually be available in its entirety on other sites, but I have no current plans for it. If you want to read those free chapters or support my writing, you can do so here:

p atreo n . com [slash] friss

Thank you for reading, and remember to vote if interested!

- Friss