The thrall reeled away from the fire, hands clutched to his face. His scream echoed from a dozen mouths. Melanna galloped on past the west gate and back towards the heart of the town.

She fought by rote, no thought given to her blows. Worry grew to desperation with every clattering hoof-beat and crackle of flame. She felt her strength slipping away, her courage alongside. What had she truly hoped to achieve? What could a mere dozen do against the Sceadotha?

The street widened into a marketplace. The tide of thralls ebbed, and Melanna found herself without opponents. To the east, a slight figure framed by the memory of feathered wings held the bridge’s crest. Nearer to, Josiri cut a path to where Akadra knelt in a torrent of dark.

Through the light of her sword, Melanna saw what was hidden from eyes alone. The tendrils that bound the man-of-shadow to the greater darkness. He couldn’t be saved. Twice, she’d had the chance to slay him, twice she’d failed or turned aside. She could not afford a third.

She sheathed her sword and unslung her bow.

Josiri would never have seen the draw of the bow but for the glint of moonlight on the arrowhead. Only a blind man could have missed Melanna’s intent. The arrow was meant not for Elda, but for Viktor.

“Melanna! No!”

The distance between them swallowed his shout, or else she paid no heed. Her horse picked up speed, galloping hard about the marketplace’s perimeter. She leaned back over the saddle, the bow-staff crosswise across her chest and the arrow’s nock touching her cheek.

“Melanna!”

Josiri urged his horse to redoubled effort. Not towards Melanna, who he knew he’d never reach in time, nor even to Viktor. Instead, he drove hard for the point between.

The bow sang. Moonlight gleamed.

Fire struck Josiri’s shoulder and twisted him about. Blood rushed hot and cold. His numbed fingers slipped from the reins.

Josiri’s cry echoed through the Dark. Viktor halted on the precipice. In his mind’s eye, he saw Josiri fall with a black-fletched shaft deep in his shoulder. Emotion he’d thought sloughed away boiled up anew. Viktor clung to those scraps. Lies melted into new truths.

Lost to the Dark, he’d not seen the arrow, nor the doom it promised. Josiri had made his sacrifice willingly, unurged. Their bond was born not of the Dark, but of friendship hard won. And if he was worthy of that friendship, Viktor realised, he was worthy of more besides. It didn’t matter that he was born of the Dark. It mattered only what he chose to be. And if he chose to be a man, and not a monster – the choice that had always been his – then he could be so.

He drew back his hand and stepped from the precipice. The Dark receded, the cold alongside.