Phosyne’s path is erratic, twisting, turning. It’s as if she’s chasing something unseen. But no matter her desperation, she is unpracticed and underfed, and Voyne gains on her. Just as they reach the smithy yard, Voyne falls upon her, tackling her into the dirt.

“Let go!” the witch cries, but Voyne only holds her more tightly. She is bird-boned beneath her, barely anything of substance, but she thrashes and squirms like a trapped stoat.

“Stop resisting,” Ser Voyne commands, and it only makes Phosyne thrash harder. Fabric tears, loud and organic and more human than crashing stone.

Something collides with the charcoal pile three feet away, sending black chunks skittering in a hundred directions in the dark. Voyne hunkers down reflexively, head ducked, so that her face is pressed to Phosyne’s throat. But there are no more missiles coming over the wall; she can’t make sense of the collision, given half a second to think. Below her, Phosyne goes limp, gasping for breath. Voyne can feel her pulse against her cheek, fluttering wildly.

And then she smells smoke.

She sits bolt upright and there is a glowing spot, orange and hot, spreading quickly.

“Oh, no,” Phosyne whispers beneath her, half a whine.

Voyne has a hand on her briefly, on her throat as if to keep her from wriggling free. But that isn’t the best use of her. “Fuck,” she snarls, and then she’s up and off Phosyne, snatching up a shovel from where it leans nearby, stabbing it into the pile.

Fire in the fuel could mean conflagration. That there’s no more iron to smelt barely registers as she scatters the pile, searching for the ember.

Behind her, Phosyne wails, drags herself to the pile for some unknowable mad reason. Voyne is digging too slowly. The bright burning spot is the size of a fist, fingers about to unfurl. The heat is already almost too much to bear, and it will only grow. “Get back!” Voyne barks, even as Phosyne plunges her hands in.

She will burn. There’s nothing for it—she has no shovel, she will burn.

And she does. Phosyne falls back, clutching air. Her hands are burned, no doubt, curled in as the flesh melts and bubbles. It looks for all the world like she is clutching something, some slip of shadow, but that can only be Voyne’s overtaxed mind.

It doesn’t matter. Voyne shouts, instead, for help. In an instant, Leodegardis is there, Galleren is there, they are scattering the ignited coals, kicking dirt over them, stamping them out. That leaves Voyne to return to Phosyne’s side, furious.

Phosyne is on her belly in the dirt now, hugging herself. But she is not sobbing with pain.

She lifts her head, and looks back at Voyne, defiant.

Snarling, Voyne seizes her by the hair, barely long enough to allow rapacious fingers.