“I came all this way to tell you that when I save the world, I’m not going to be saving you. You’re not on my list.”

“I’ll get by fine without you, don’t worry about it.”

Melancholia laughed. “You’re so tough, aren’t you? With all your fighting moves and your Elemental magic and your dainty little ring. I don’t need an object in which to store my Necromancy. My power is stored inside me. I am my own weapon.”

“Is there a point to any of this?”

“Yes, actually. There is. You’re not on my list.”

A fist of shadows crunched into Valkyrie’s chest and lifted her off her feet.

“And if you’re not on my list,” Melancholia continued breezily, “then you don’t get saved.”

Valkyrie struggled to get to her hands and knees. The shot had knocked the wind out of her. “Seriously?” she managed to say. “We’re going to fight?”

“Who said anything about fighting?” Melancholia asked. “I’m going to slash you to ribbons and you’re going to take it. I’d hardly call that a fight.”

Melancholia frowned, almost to herself, and for a moment she seemed to sway, like she was going to collapse. She suddenly looked drained. She looked exhausted.

Valkyrie stood slowly, warily, looking out for the trap. A moan drifted from Melancholia’s lips, and Valkyrie realised it wasn’t an act – Melancholia really was hurting.

And then, just as suddenly as the weakness had hit, it left her, and Melancholia straightened up. The darkness turned sharp and whipped across Valkyrie’s right arm. Blood sprang into the air and she cried out. Melancholia raised an eyebrow and something sliced Valkyrie’s back, opening up her skin as easily as it opened her T-shirt. Valkyrie stumbled, cursed, raised her hand, but the shadows wrapped around her wrist. They tightened and she screamed, the shadows cutting into her flesh like piano wire. The ring flew from her finger into Melancholia’s hand.

“A gaudy trinket,” Melancholia said, examining it, “containing an insignificant amount of power. Cleric Wreath had faith in you on the basis of this? How disappointing.”

Valkyrie pretended to stagger, closing the distance between them, and then she lunged, but Melancholia twisted the darkness into a claw that ripped into her belly. Valkyrie doubled over, gasping at the white-hot pain. Another claw slashed her face. She spun, fell, blood running down her neck. Her face was ruined, cut open like a freshly ploughed field. Shadows snagged her wrists and ankles, holding her in mid-air, her body locked tight.

“All the little jibes,” Melancholia said. “All the little taunts.”

Knives of darkness cut into Valkyrie’s skin and she screamed.