The absence of its flickering glow is subtle, barely noticeable until Treila hauls herself around a bend in the tunnel, and then there is nothing but darkness and blue light. The earth itself seems to tighten around her, the tunnel constricting until rock brushes against her sleeves. Her clothes are heavy, blood-soaked and sodden, and she kicks and snarls, fighting her way through.

She tries not to think of what she will find—or won’t find. Perhaps Voyne will be gone, following her direction, yes, but leaving Treila alone, and Treila does not want to be alone. Even if she knows she can kill a saint. Even if she knows she can survive this next negotiation.

But when she crawls at last to the final lip of the tunnel, she hears voices, murmurs. She plunges forward, legs tangling in her skirts, skin scraping as she tumbles from the mouth of the tunnel and back into her little cavern, secret from all the world.

Voyne sits with her back against the crack, watching her.

It’s almost impossible to see her, the cavern is so dark. Even the glow of the creek is fading. But Voyne is alive, and Voyne is smiling.

Treila swallows down her panic and straightens up.

“You came back,” Voyne says and, as Treila watches, plants her hands against the stone behind her and shoves herself to her feet. Her armor looks different, but maybe it’s the light.

“Were you going to leave?” Treila asks, nodding at the gap behind her.

“No,” Voyne says.

The darkness says nothing.

“Does Phosyne have the knife?” Voyne asks, taking one lurching step toward her. Her mouth twists with pain, but she stays upright.

Treila fights back the urge to go to her. “You were wrong, to trust her,” she snaps instead. Lets Voyne take another step, then slips around her, goes to the crack herself. “We need to leave, and quickly. This whole castle is going to come down soon.”

Voyne turns. Her armor is loud in the small space, clanking against itself. It sounds different now, too. Less tinkling. More martial.

Treila ignores it, shoves her hand into the crack. “Come on, beastie,” she says, smile fierce on her lips. “Take a nibble, let me through.”

The darkness does not answer.

There are no lips against her hand. No teeth. No curling limbs. There is nothing for Treila to bite into, nothing for her to grab hold of. She slams her other fist against the rock, pushes farther in. “Name your price!” she demands.

The only response is Voyne’s hand, clapped hard onto her shoulder, but urging her back gently.

Only because of the weakness still in her limbs, surely. It is not tenderness.

“We fight,” Voyne tells her, voice quiet in her ear. “That is the deal I have made.”

Treila shivers, then turns, staring up into the other woman’s eyes. They are calm, cool, everything Treila is not. They incense her.