"Tristian," said Darlac, walking through a narrow, maze-like corridor hand in hand with the cleric. "What are you going to do after you defeat Vordakai?"

  Tristian's hand twitched in her grip. His eyes remained fixed upon the floor.

  "That depends on the baroness and... other factors. But basically I intend to get out of here, as quickly as possible."

  "I mean, what's your plan with the Oculus?"

  He pulled his hand away, grabbing his rosary instead.

  "I... I don't know," he muttered. "I'm not sure it's my place to decide its fate. There is a chance I won't even be alive to make that decision."

  "That's not the right way to look at it, Tristian," insisted Darlac. "You need to plan ahead. Imagine you're standing victorious over the sorry pile of bones that remained of the lich, the orb sparkling in green between your hands."

  "Red."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's sparkling in red."

  Darlac shrugged. "Whatever. It can be any colour, for all I care. Anyway, imagine you're holding it in your hand. What do you do next? Destroy it? Keep it? Hide it? Use it? Give it away?"

  Tristian raised his shaking hands to the sky in mock indignation.

  "I don't know, Darlac, for Heaven's sake! Why don't you let me be?"

  "Fine. If you don't know, I'll tell you. Destroy it. I mean, how is that even a question? As long as the Oculus of Abaddon exists, there will be those who covet it. I don't want to deal with new wannabe Vordakais every few years or decades. Do you?"

  "What if I can't destroy it?"

  "I'm sure your goddess will help. An all-seeing eye is a mockery of the sun itself. A mockery of Sarenrae. There's no way she won't help her faithful servant to destroy such a dangerous source of evil power. And I'll be there, too, fighting by your side. Iomedae has a history of successes against all-powerful liches. I'm sure she'll be happy to lend some of her power to purge this place. We can do it together." She stopped in her tracks, grabbed Tristian's arms and looked into his eyes with all the earnest intensity she could muster. "But whatever you do, you can't allow the Oculus to fall into Guelder's hands. She is a strong and wise woman, but an artifact from Abaddon is not something she can deal with. I fear she would try to use it against Lady Bloom and succumb to its influence. Tristian, you need to promise me you won't let that happen!"

  "I won't, Darlac. Rest assured about that." Thankfully, he looked like he meant it.

  Something stirred at the end of the corridor.

  Darlac held out an arm in front of Tristian to stop him from moving. They were definitely not alone.

  A translucent white figure floated towards them, oblivious of their presence. It moved slowly, idly, as if studying the ornamental motifs on the walls, the size and texture of stones, or whatever. A ghost. Tristian's shrouding spell was still in place, hiding both of them from any undead, perhaps even from Vordakai himself. Still, Darlac flattened herself against the wall, just in case, and Tristian followed suit.

  Alas, she chose an especially interesting part to flatten herself against.

  The ghost halted right in front of her, looking her up and down with sightless eyes. Darlac did the same, her breath hitched, until the realisation struck her. The curly hair, the pudgy face and the semblance of a shirt unbuttoned to the navel were very, very hard to miss.

  An incorporeal hand reached out towards Darlac, as though pulled by the warmth of life. It passed through her Death Ward, her breastplate, her uniform, her underwear, sending a chill through her body, pulling her skin into goosebumps.

  That was not something she was happy to tolerate.

  A wave of positive energy flooded out of Darlac, its ripples pushing the ghost away. She remained there, shivering, crossing her arms in front of her chest, furious to the core.

  "Willas Gunderson! Keep your groping hands in check, or I'll chop them off and stuff them into your ears, incorporeal or not!"

  The ghost flinched in embarrassment, making the translucent image ripple.

  "Aww, I'm so sorry, General! I didn't mean to! I just wanted to examine this wall from an archaeological point of view, and then I sensed your warmth and thought this might be the last opportunity for me to... never mind. I'll see myself out."

  "Wait a minute," snapped Darlac, her anger getting the best of her. "There is something else we must talk about."

  "But... what? I know it was a terrible mistake to steal that bracelet or ring or whatever it was! I was already punished for it! And Baroness Guelder said it was okay for me to move on!"

  "Not before you answer for Lady Alicia and her golden lips," hissed Darlac. "Just so you know, I destroyed that abomination of a book with fire and steel. How could you do this to me?"

  Had she not known better, she would have sworn that the ghost blushed.

  "I'm sorry!" it stuttered. "I meant no harm! Will you... will you now cancel Guelder's forgiveness? Will Pharasma reject me after all? Do I have to stay here forever?"

  Darlac's body became tense, her fists clenched. Guelder's forgiveness? The people wiped out because of the Chronicler's folly were not Guelder's people. How did the baroness presume to forgive sins committed against someone else? Did she already think this land was hers? Long-forgotten feelings were bubbling up in Darlac's heart again. Feelings she'd thought she'd cleared out of herself long ago. Hatred. Fear. Jealousy. An ardent wish to see the beast woman finally reveal her hidden evil nature and then defeat, no, destroy her in honourable combat. Let her claim the Oculus and swap an eye for it. Darlac would gladly put a sword through the other one.

  She resisted those thoughts. This was not the time to call out the baroness on nuances like that, not even if that nuance felt like a thorn in Darlac's foot, making its presence felt with every step she took. She couldn't give in. Instead she reached out towards her goddess, and her right hand flared up with holy energy, ready to heal or hurt.

  Nothing could help her foul mood like a bitch slap enhanced with Lay on Hands.

  "Ow!" yelped the ghost, shuddering. As it attempted to rub its face, its hand passed through its head unhindered, and its white shape got all tangled up for a moment. "Well, damn. I certainly deserved that, on top of everything else."

  "Now get the hell out of here," growled Darlac, "before I do something worse to you. When you stand before Pharasma for judgement, make sure not to try and fondle her titties."

  Nodding frantically, the ghost dispersed into thin air, and Tristian burst into hysterical laughter. Darlac stopped herself from lashing out at him. It was the laughter of a man at the very end of his sanity. He bent over, his eyes filling up with tears, unable to stop. It would have been so comforting to laugh with him, give him a hug, cry on each other's shoulder in this irrational outburst of pent-up emotions. But alas, at the moment, Darlac was too offended at men in general.

  Tristian abruptly stopped laughing. His eyeballs turned inwards, and he started to mutter to himself, as if talking to someone inside his head. Someone who was definitely neither Guelder nor Sarenrae nor Vordakai.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Yes, my lady. The final clash. I'm ready. No, my lady, she won't interfere. Yes. I know. My last chance."

  "Tristian? Who are you talking to?"

  He shook himself and turned away from Darlac, casting a spell. A portal opened up in front of him.

  "Thanks for everything, Darlac. I'm sorry."

  "Don't you dare walk out on me!" exclaimed Darlac. She stepped between Tristian and the portal, and grabbed him by the wrists. "I want answers, Tristian! Who were you talking to? Who do you serve?"

  "Darlac, please don't. It's... complicated. You wouldn't understand. Just let me go, will you?"

  "You're not going anywhere," she snarled. "Not before you tell me the truth!"

  "I can't! She'll kill me!"

  "Who?"

  No answer came, except for some whimpering. Only then did it occur to Darlac to glance back over her shoulder at the portal. It was... disturbingly familiar. It put her in mind of a seemingly endless flood of monsters, the stench of a burning flower, leaden exhaustion weighing down on her limbs. Despair, suddenly turning into relief.

  The portal's edges were flickering. It could wink out anytime. Tristian made a feeble attempt to tear himself free, but he stood no chance against Darlac's iron grip.

  "Lady Bloom," she said softly. "You serve Lady Bloom. Prove me wrong."

  Tears rolled down Tristian's cheeks. He didn't answer.

  "Why, Tristian? What was her offer you couldn't refuse? Power? Knowledge? Love?"

  "My wings," he whispered.

  Holy fringe. So Darlac's aasimar sense had been right. She was grappling with a fallen angel trapped in a mortal body.

  She suddenly remembered the other angel she'd met in Lostlarn Keep, captured by the fey on a mission to track down his comrade Nasritti, gone missing in action somewhere on the Stolen Lands. How could she have been so blind? Why had it never occurred to her to rearrange the letters of that name into something familiar?

  "For how long?"

  "Since before the Stag Lord's fall."

  "By the Inheritor... You are the Skylark, aren't you? The one who helped her create the flower. Is this how you planned to break free? By being her accomplice in killing hundreds of people?"

  She fell silent. It didn't make sense. But then again, how could she know she wouldn't do the same if desperate enough?

  Tristian squirmed in her grip, ever so weakly.

  "Tell the truth before your heavenly goddess and mine, and don't you dare try to wiggle out! Suppose I'll let you go. What are you going to do in there?"

  "My task is to curse Vordakai, grab the artifact and take it to Nyrissa. I mean, Lady Bloom."

  "So she has a name. Awesome. But this is not what I asked. What are you going to do? There are at least four courses of action. Which one will you take? Will you be her obedient little birdie who brings her shiny objects to increase her power to hurt people? Or will you grow a fucking spine and spit in her green face?"

  The cleric, or angel, or whatever he was, didn't answer.

  "You don't have to do it alone, Tristian. I'll go in with you. You do the cursing and get the artifact, and then we destroy it together."

  "No, Darlac. This is a single-use portal. Whatever happens, this is my fight and mine alone."

  Darlac pursed her lips and nodded.

  "Fair enough. Then you're on your own, cousin. Lay your trust in the Dawnflower. She is still out there, pouring out Her sunlight on the righteous and the sinful alike, watching over you all the time, regardless if you can feel it or not. It's time to reclaim what's yours. Not your wings or Her good graces. Your honour."

  Something twinkled in Tristian's eyes. A little spark of self-confidence. Perhaps it could be stoked into a blazing fire... but Darlac could only add a tiny drop of fuel. She hoped it would be enough.

  "Go now, Nasritti. Dig into the ash and find the last embers underneath. Rekindle your flame, no matter how it hurts. Bring down Vordakai and destroy the Oculus. Not for Lady Bloom. For those who stand against him, and for those who died by his hand. Then follow your heart, hold your head high, and face the consequences with dignity."

  Yes, Dusty, I'm still a pompous bitch. Sometimes that's what people need.

  She let go of Tristian's wrists and gently pushed him towards the flickering portal. As he did so often, his hand sought out his rosary in an effort to focus. But this time, he looped the string around a finger on both hands, gritted his teeth, and ripped it apart. The beads scattered on the flagstones, bouncing about, then coming to a still. Tristian looked at the shallow cuts it left on his fingers.

  "Phew," he said. "I should have done this long ago. Thank you, Darlac. Sarenrae bless you."

  Darlac smiled and squeezed his shoulders.

  "Fly, Skylark. May the Inheritor guide you."

  And he was gone. The portal died as soon as he passed through.

  Darlac heaved a deep sigh, a wistful smile on her face. She wouldn't see Tristian redeem himself and break Vordakai's rule of terror, but the knowledge of having made a difference smuggled peace and comfort into her heart. She would talk to Guelder after the fight and see what the future held for the empty husk that was Varnhold. Perhaps the baroness could point her towards Maegar's remains for a final farewell. And then this nightmare would be over.

  "Nicely done," said a booming voice, and an invisible hand squeezed Darlac's arm.

  "You...?"

  Darlac's stomach squeezed into a knot. Her contentment with a job well done dispersed in a heartbeat, washed away by a wave of horror. She thought she was there again, in the First World, deathly exhausted, bleeding, scared, victory tasting bitter on her parched tongue. She drew her swords and looked around, her eyes searching for her ancient foe.

  A small lantern stood by the wall, emitting rainbow-coloured light. Darlac was entirely sure it had not been there before. Beside it stood the Horned Hunter with folded arms, the blackness in his helmet smirking at her.

  "The hero of Varnhold returns," he mused. "You refused to take my boon. Now your people is dead. Your friends are dead. The only man you ever loved is dead. You are the last survivor, the last witness to Varnhold's fall, alone in a land soon to be claimed by strangers. Any regrets?"

  "My sole regret is that I'm too weak to kill you," growled Darlac. Her eyes were fixed on the fey lord, her body poised, her blades at the ready, but she didn't make a move. Last time she'd done, it had ended very, very badly. What to do now?

  "Your threats are empty, and you know it. Still, you seem a little wiser than you were last time. Did that wisdom come at the cost of bravery? If I give you a chance to join the final fight and turn the tables, will you take the leap of faith?"

  In a flash, a portal bloomed out of the lantern, ripping a hole into reality. On the other side, another large, circular chamber awaited, with familiar shapes and faces in it. Guelder. Hazel. Valerie. Linzi. A dwarf that had to be Harrim. Maegar's lifeless body laid out on a dais. All Darlac had to do was cross the portal and join the fray.

  Or she was being lured into another exile, in the First World or in her very own pocket dimension, this time perhaps forever, with no one to track her down and bring her back. But if there was one percent chance that it was real...

  Well, Darlac had no intention to walk into the same trap a third time.

  She stood there, staring into the portal, mesmerised. This time it wasn't the strange resistance in the air that kept her from passing through, but her own cowardice, disguised as wisdom or an instinct of self-preservation. Her feet rooted to the floor, she watched idly, through a curtain of tears, as the events unfolded on the other side. Guelder's squad took on the lich, a scrawny, cyclops-sized figure dressed in ancient, threadbare robes, the Oculus of Abaddon pulsating in red where his eye should have been. They were struggling, some of them running about aimlessly in fear, others just standing in place and shaking, unable to attack or move. Then Tristian made his entry worthy of a true River Kingdoms daredevil, stole the artifact, and fled through a portal before Hazel's arrow could reach him. Still, the loss of his eye weakened Vordakai enough for the squad to handle. Once he was down, along with his raven, Guelder walked up to Maegar's body and pressed her lips against his in a long kiss of resuscitation. (Was that even a thing outside fairy tales?) The scene ended with the baron and the baroness holding hands, absorbed in each other's gaze, and the portal winked out of existence.

  "The end," said the Horned Hunter theatrically, shaking his head in disappointment. "You have nobody to blame but yourself. Enjoy your proud independence, hero. Farewell!"