alkyrie felt something cold twist in her gut. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice brittle and sharp. “This is my home.”

“I know it is,” Melancholia answered. “I’ve heard Cleric Wreath mention the pier in Haggard so many times that it was really no trouble finding you. So this is where you live, then. How… mundane.”

Melancholia smiled as she approached. The hem of her robes flowed over the ground like a river of shadows. “What’s wrong? Nothing to say? You usually have lots to say. Are you feeling all right? Are you sick? Are you ill? You don’t look ill. Are you putting a brave face on it? You have nothing to prove to me, you know. I respect you for who you are. And who are you again? Oh yes, that’s right. Absolutely nobody.”

“Whatever you want,” Valkyrie said, struggling to keep her anger down, “it can wait, OK? My baby sister’s inside.”

Melancholia’s smile grew wider, and now Valkyrie could see the multitude of symbols that scarred her face. “You have a sister? I didn’t know that. Do you think she’ll grow up to be as ordinary as you, perhaps? How does it feel, to suddenly go from being the saviour of the world back to being some insignificant little schoolgirl?”

“I’m not going to tell you again. Get away from my house.”

“You do not order me around, little schoolgirl. I am the Death Bringer, and you’ll always be a silly little child playing grown-up games. I used to be like you, in a way. I used to be scared. I didn’t understand what was going on. But then this happened, and all this power came to me, and it all became so, so clear.”

Valkyrie shook her head. “What did Craven do to you?”

“What did he do? He did nothing. He released the power I had inside.”

“No. He changed you. Look at yourself, for God’s sake.”

“Cleric Craven recognised my potential.”

“He tortured you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Nor would I expect you to. It’s funny, seeing you stand there, all scared. I’m used to seeing you in your special black clothes that protect you from harm, always with a smirk on your face. You’re not smirking, Valkyrie. I distinctly remember a smirk when you told me that I would have to start worshipping you. Isn’t that what you said? But you’re not the Death Bringer. You don’t get to save the world. I do. And so you should really start worshipping me.”

“Leave,” Valkyrie snarled, then stepped back inside the house, slamming the door. She turned as the shadows in the hallway lengthened and met in the middle of the floor, swirling, thickening, growing. Melancholia emerged from the maelstrom.