It sounds less like a promise and more like a plea.

They regard each other for one last moment, and then Treila turns and, behind her, Phosyne walks away, back into the castle. The door closes, and Treila breathes. The air out here is cooler now, and damp. A storm is on the way. She must return to the cavern below the keep, and quickly now. She must let Voyne know how far Phosyne has fallen.

Or she can stay, and watch the disaster she can feel in her bones is coming. But without a knife . . .

Without a knife, she is in danger.

The feast will only last so long, and is no guarantee of safety even as it rages. Treila leans hard against the stone wall, centering herself, preparing for one last dash.

And then she feels a tickle. The slightest brush of eyes over her shadowed form.

She turns.

The Loving Saint leans in the doorway.

He is not trying to hide his monstrousness anymore. His long white hair is stained red where it has trailed through blood, and beneath his nails is filth. His clothing is in tatters. His muscles lie wrong for him to be anything but unnatural.

“Where has your knife got to?” he murmurs. “Your closest companion, your dearest love.”

“You saw it,” she says, taking a step back along the wall, only to hear a rustling, a hissing. It’s not only him that’s found her. A glance over her shoulder reveals flat, white faces. The shift of limbs in the dark. She is surrounded by the saints’ creatures. Her mouth is dry, her throat sandpaper. But she lifts her chin up, meets the Loving Saint’s eyes once more. “It’s in Ser Voyne’s throat.”

“But Ser Voyne isn’t in the chapel anymore.”

“Only Phosyne could remove the blade. Your Lady said so.”

His eyes spark. He’s pleased she was there—or pleased that he knew she was there, without seeing her. “No, no,” he purrs, taking a step closer, and this time she falls back. She will not meet him now. She knows better. “Not only Phosyne. Don’t you remember, foolish girl, that there is something in the core of you that the Lady did not predict? I think you could take the blade from Ser Voyne’s flesh as easy as breathing. But where did you leave it, I wonder?”

His nostrils flare, even as they change in shape, melting into Voyne’s.

“Did you think you were killing me, when you slaughtered her?” he asks with her voice. “How long, until you realized you were wrong?”

“Don’t,” she bites out. “Don’t wear that face.”

“She died very prettily,” he continues. “Her lips were kiss-swollen. Was it from you? Did she know that you were there, or did she think the sun was merely shining upon her face?”