Cyrene

Aakil

“You are the chief of the tribe, Cyrene. You have to leave the hunt behind you.” Aakil says. If he were anyone but her younger brother she’d have shoved him for it. “Our father has just died, you have to step up and take lead. The tribe is looking to you to replace him.”

“Father chose the path of the warrior; father chose the hunt.” Cyrene says bitterly.

“Everyone else chose to settle, they want to plant and forage and move forward. We want to be more like towns and cities where winters are easier, where we can do more than hunt and make bone jewels.”

“You want to abandon the ways of the ancestors.” Cyrene leans against a nearby tree. She’s not mad, but she’s disappointed, and she doesn’t know how she can lead the tribe into a life of farming. All she’s ever known or wanted was the hunt, the warriors path. “You want me to lead you away from the ancestors.”

“We are looking to the future generations.” He says.

“What if I didn’t?”

“You can’t be serious right now!”

“What if you did?”

“Me?” Aakil’s voice almost cracks on the word.

“Sure, you’ve never been good with a weapon, but you have a mind for this. You are slow to anger and quick to thinking.”

“And you get to be free to do what you’d like?” he argues.

“It’s doing what’s best for the tribe,” Cyrene says. She looks down. “I will never be happy here. I will push the old ways on us until there is unrest. They will turn against me in the end. You would thrive in that position.”

“You would name me chief?” He questions. It’s not exactly uncommon. She’d been eager to be chief for years, but chief of a warrior tribe, not a settled one. She wouldn’t know how to lead them.

“Do you see a better option?”

“Not really, to be honest. It’s not a perfect solution. There might be fighting if you didn’t listen to me or if people thought I forced you to-”

“I’m leaving.” Cyrene says. “I will not force the tribe to live a way they don’t want, but I will not abandon the ways of old.”

“You can’t mean to split the tribe.” He says. Cyrene shakes her head. “A tribe of one? You are skilled but not even you can survive alone.”

“I will find others. I will form a tribe the way the first tribes were formed. I will be fine brother.”

“Will you visit?”

“You’ll be easy to find once you plant roots, Chief Aakil.”

Tattoo

Cyrene can barely sit still as her grandmother needles the tattoo into her arm. Cyrene tells her of the great beasts she has slain; bugbears, warriors, and a green dragon. She had brought the pelts and hides as proof of her skill, of her title. She had given them gold and told stories over the campfire. Her grandmother had asked a few questions, but did not hesitate to offer Cyrene her tattoo. The first in a generation, perhaps the last in the tribe.

Drawing the tattoo is slow, and leaves a persistent itch on her arm, but she would not dare to ask it to go faster. Its cathartic. She can feel the eyes of her ancestors upon her. She has followed their ways, even if the tribe has chosen to settle.

“It’s done.” She says, and Cyrene twists her arm to look at it. Tears spring to her eyes. She rubs a finger underneath the icon and smiles.

“And the other?” she asks. The warrior tattoos come in pairs, one on each arm. Some warriors only ever had one done, but Cyrene wants them both.

“You haven’t earned it yet, sweetheart.”

“I haven’t?” She turns to the table next to them where a shiny green dragon hide is spread out. “The great ancestors hunted beings greater than dragons?”

“It’s not about the greatness of the beast, my dear, it is about the story.”

“I have given you many stories, grandmother.”

“For those, I have given you the warrior’s skill. You have yet to earn the warrior’s spirit.”

“But I have the warrior’s spirit!” Cyrene declares. She left her tribe to be a huntress. She braved it alone before finding a new, albeit odd, tribe. She has lived for the hunt since she could hold a spear.

“Then you must tell me different stories. Not of conquest and glaive, but bravery and heart.”

“I don’t understand.” Cyrene says.

“The warrior’s spirit is harder to earn. It’s not something you can earn with a pelt. It is a way of living, an understanding of purpose. Tell me child, have you put your life on the line for your friends, for your enemies? Have you fought for something nobler than yourself, doing what is right even if there is no glory in it?”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Cyrene admits.

“Then you haven’t earned it yet. I have faith in you, though.” Her grandmother kisses her forehead. “You will find the warrior spirit, and when you do, I will give you the second tattoo.”

Nightbeard

“Nightbeard,” Cyrene says as she approaches his throne. Her friends have been taken by the fey. She must save them, but she knows she must be careful. He looks down at her with a smile.

“They are not hurt,” He says as he beckons her closer, “but they are being punished.”
Cyrene clenches her fist but doesn’t reach for the glaive on her back yet, she takes a step forward “Easy child. I can feel your blood rushing through your ears.” He says.
“They are my tribe, my pack, their suffering is my suffering. Why have you brought me here, my lord?”
“They have given Snowhair a gift, and she has marked them for it.” Cyrene blinks, but she doesn’t know anything about this. “They have no gift for me, so I have punished them for it.”
“What gift do you demand?”
“A champion.”
“Who?” She takes a breath and realization settles in her stomach with pressure. “Me?”
“Yes.”

“I’ll do it then, what do you need me to do?”

“I will let my will be known when I have need.” He says.
“Will you let me save them, then?”

“As my champion, I would allow you to try for a sacrifice.”

“I’ll do it,” Cyrene says, “if you let me save them.”

“I’ll allow it, but you will regret it.” He says.

“I won’t.” She vows.

Cyrene blinks, and she is in the middle of the forest again, a halfling sits on a table in front of her as she sits in a chair. “He demands your hair.”

“My hair?” Her long braided hair is a pride of her tribe. She is almost tempted to say no, but she has to do whatever she can to save them, and perhaps this helps her take her next step in her warrior’s path.

“It’s up to you.” He says, reading her hesitation, “I will say if a sacrifice was made and accepted, your hair will not grow back; otherwise your sacrifice will have meant nothing.” Cyrene nods, hair is just hair, she thinks, and it’s not worth other people. He runs his hands through the side of her head, gently, but she cries out. Magic rips her hair from her scalp and it falls into her hands in clumps. Tears spring to her eyes, but she will not let them fall. Her head screams in pain, and she feels blood start to run down her face. After a second, he stops. “He does not demand all of your hair,” he says, and when Cyrene looks into the pond below, she sees he’s taken the hair on her right side, in the front, and left her the rest. She sees blood pooling in areas where the hair took her skin. She stumbles to her knees, feeling sick and weak. “If you are not used to magic, if may take a while for you to adjust. You can wait-”

“No, I’ll go to them now.”

“Your sacrifice is accepted. You may go to them.” She hears Nightbeard in her head. Her arm burns with magic next, and she collapses on to all fours. A snaking rope mark appears around her arm, marking her as Nightbeard’s. “Remember, they must choose to leave it themselves and the White Vengeance is difficult to leave. Good luck, Champion!”

The Third

“They’ve barely done the first two tests; they won’t last the third.” He says cruelly from his throne.

“Then let me do it, and let them go.” Cyrene says, but as it is right now she is struggling to stand and not sure she will fare much better.

“And how is that fair?” He asks.

“How is it fair to test them without me? Let me do the last one, and bring them back.” He hums.

The bodies of her friends and teammates appear on the ground behind her. She hears them groaning as they wake up, but Cyrene doesn’t shift from her spot between them. She tries to stand proud, but most of her weight is on the glaive she is using for support. Her head is bleeding and her breathes are ragged. She knows she cannot look threatening like this, but she will fight for them if she must.

“You have saved them.” Nightbeard says, slightly impressed, “and you have chosen to be saved.”

“Then we can leave?” she asks, shaking.

“I’ll keep my word.”

“I’ll give you a warning,” Nightbeard says as they are heading for the door. “There are more Fey lords than Snowhair and I. Now that you’ve been marked, and gifts have been given, they will call out to you, and they may not have my mercy.”

“Champion,” he says as Cyrene stops at the door, letting the others cross, “there is still the third test.”

“Which is?”

“Their loyalty.” He says.

“I thought the third test was mine alone.” Cyrene smile fades.

“You merely asked that it be.” He stands and walks over to the center of the room, where a large cauldron appears. Cyrene peers down into the water and it ripples. “But it was not you who needed testing.”

“What’s the test?”

“It’s simple really. If they are as loyal to you as you are to them then they’ll come back.”

“And when they pass?”

“If they come, I let you go, and call on you when I have need.”

“That should be simple enough.” Cyrene says.

Cauldron

“Do you still think they will come for you?” He asks, his voice cruel as she watches her friends wake up at the inn through the cauldron. It takes them an embarrassingly long time to notice she’s missing, but she’s always been the observant one. They just had an ordeal, Cyene is sure of it. The water in the bowl ripples to show them surrounding the tree that acts as the gateway.

“An illusion,” she bites out. Her glaive clatters on the ground as she loses her grip on it, and she leans against the cauldron with heavy breaths.

“No.” He says. “Time is different here. I show you the truth. I have no need to lie to you, champion.”

“So tell me what is true, then.” Cyrene’s fingers clench around the cauldron.

“If they come back here for you, I’ll release you, as promised.” He doesn’t watch the image at all, and in the bowl, she sees them trying a couple methods to get in.

“They are here,” she says. She almost slips on the bowl and pants in exertion. She is still reeling from the unfamiliar magic in her system. To think she tried to pretend to be a wizard. “Open the door.”

“They know it opens at night. You know it opens at night. I’ll open it tonight.” He smirks. “Do you think they will give you a day? You offered a life.” She can’t shake the feeling that he taunts because he knows.

Cyrene does not tremble, not even as the chills of his magic fill the room, nor as her head continues to pound from the other price she paid to save them. They are her pack. They will stay. They will find her. She continues the chant in her head until it becomes meaningless. The words in her head swirl into the fuzziness of the magic coursing her body. She is cold and alone here. They left her to be cold and alone here.

“I can show you what I already know to be true.” He does know. Doesn’t he? Had he always?

“No,” she snarls, “I will watch every second.” Every second of their betrayal will be one she watches. It doesn’t even take a full morning. She can’t even cry. The mark on her arm begins to burn and she grabs at it as she looks up into Nightbeard’s face.

“Are you ready to see what your life is, now that you’ve paid it for them?”

Reunion

It’s been years. She’s forgotten the taste of apples and the warmth of friendship, but she’ll never forget the faces of those that did not come for her. Cyrene is in the middle of fighting the corrupted beasts of the forest, so she ignores them at first. They don’t seem like they are here to fight her, at least not yet. She’s fought these corrupted creatures for years now, and Nightbeard has told her she will likely never stop. He reminds her that she’s paid a life. When the beasts lay in shreds at her feet, she turns her weapon against them. They are not the crows and squirrel spies of asmodeus but that doesn’t mean they are not her enemies.

They look shocked that she doesn’t appreciate their jokes. They should be kneeling at her feet begging her forgiveness. She should be with them. Nightbeard has told her no one gets in. That includes them. They laugh at the name, as if he were an inconvenience, as if she didn’t bear his mark and burn in his displeasure. As if he didn’t have more power over her than gods did.

“The Cyrene I knew was not a servant.” Barthel says. His voice is confident and patronizing, and it grates against her skull.

“The Cyrene you knew is gone.” She snarls. Her voice is rough from disuse but she doesn’t care. She growls lowly as they share glances with each other. She used to be part of that. Until it was easier to leave her behind. They mean to walk past her and plunder what she is meant to protect. Once again getting what they need and leaving her to consequences they know nothing of. She is not sure which hurts most, but she will not dwell on it now.

“I cannot let you pass.” She says. Mergun walks closer. They jest and do not understand her strength of will. They laugh. She has no duty to them anymore. She will cut them down. She lifts her glaive with intention, and he steps back. There is surprise in his eyes. “No. I cannot let you pass.” She is firm. She sees understanding dawn in their eyes, but she traveled with them in the past, and she knows they care not for the wreckage they leave behind in their quests. Will they come to blows over this? Will she die here to them? Will they to her?

Her mark burns with Nightbeard’s magic and the command becomes known to her. Her ally becomes known to her. Her eyes shift to the sorceress, Miranda, who nods in understanding. They must bring him the seal and return. Cyrene pauses as his promise becomes known to her. She will be free after the seals are collected. Freedom. She looks over to her former team. She hates them all equally, but the druid may have the most luck getting into the temple.

“You,” she points at Barthel, “I’ll allow you to try.”

Petyr

The first time she meets Petyr, she’s sitting in a tree alone. She’s maintaining a vigilance that the rest of the party long abandoned. Asmodean spies took many forms, and she’s so spent many years making enemies of those that want the seals that she can easily spot the crows and squirrels that report to them.

They laugh beneath her at the newcomer who stumbles an introduction and offers to make the party stew. They let him cook the food like idiots, but she doesn’t stop them. She’s gone years without speaking to people so it’s easy to ignore their conversations and focus on the woods. The newcomer doesn’t notice her until he’s already handing out the food, and he jerks in surprise as he sees her. He’s an idiot too then.

“Cyrene?” He asks as he looks up at her. They told him her name. His eyes are warm as he tentatively lifts a bowl. Cyrene turns away but Petyr continues to try.

“No.” Cyrene finally answers, voice rough and low.

“Ah, that’s alright,” he says with a smile. “Maybe next time.”

Not likely, she thinks.

But he stays.

It almost becomes a routine, with the way he offers her food every night and she turns him down. She’d gotten used to gamier meats and less cooking over the years, and having him cook for her feels like some sort of compromise. She’s not part of the group. She’ll never be part of the group again. He never says anything unkind, always hopes that next time is different, always keeps trying.

He notices the way she avoids the party, the way she doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary, and must decide that he is there to fix it. He is kind, which may be the only reason that she tolerates the way he treats her like they are friends. The way she allows the stilted conversations that may make them closer to friends than she wants.

“You don’t seem to trust them, so why do you travel with them?” He asks.

“Assignment.” She says, brisk and vague, hoping he’ll pick up the hint to stop talking. “You can go talk to them.”

“I get to talk to them at dinner. I want to talk to you when you’re not hanging out in trees.” He smiles. A joke between friends. They are not friends. She stalks forward and listens as Mergun starts telling another story, calling Petyr back to him to listen.

“I don’t know what happened,” he tries again a few days later, “but evidently you harbor deep resentment towards the others.” Cyrene doesn’t respond, and he takes her silence as an invitation to continue. He details the way that teams work best together and how hardship makes for stronger bonds. “You know,” he smiles, “There is a particular passage in the scriptures of Goibhniu’s teachings that-”

“I don’t care about your god.” Cyrene snaps. Petyr’s startled into stillness at her quiet fury. “I don’t care about your tales of forgiveness.” She doesn’t care about him either, so she continues walking past him. “I care even less about the others.” It’s the longest conversation she’s had in years.

The conversations continue like that for a while. Small. Jilted. She makes it worse one day. He’s falling from a dangerous height and it’s too easy to catch him, to break his fall and end up in a tangle of limps on the floor. If he were seriously hurt the group would be at a disadvantage. It’s the smart call, anyone should have done it. It’s fine. Except he looks up at her with his bright eyes and says my hero.

“I meant it, you know.” He says the next day. “Falling from that height could have broken my legs.”

“Can’t have you slow us down.” Cyrene says, but it doesn’t come out as rough as it should.

“I know I carry around all this heavy armor and my shield, but I promise I can keep up.” Isn’t he in his thirties too? He reminds her of younger days and her eagerness to prove herself.

“We’ll see.” She smirks. She should know better.

…

“I don’t mean to pry,” he opens one day when they are in the rear together, “but I can’t imagine what they did that is so terrible.”

“They are not good people.” She bites. She won’t tell him the whole story. She won’t speak it out loud.

“They seem like pretty good people to me.” Cyrene stops walking, turns to angrily lash out with words but his hands are up in a placating gesture. He makes himself look small. “I can tell that they’ve hurt you though. I’m sorry for that.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Cyrene says instead. Petyr keeps walking and Cyrene shakes her head as she joins him again.

…

“I can take watch if you want,” Petyr says from the bottom of the tree she’s perched in. “It doesn’t have to always be you.”

“I’d rather it be me,” Cyrene says. Petyr lifts the bowl in his hands in offering, and Cyrene shakes her head. “I appreciate the offer.”

“Would you appreciate the company?” Petyr asks, moving to sit by the base of her tree.

“I won’t send you away.” Cyrene finally says. She lets her eyes skim the tree tops again and he settles at the base of the tree.

“You know Goibhniu’s-”

“If you so much as say forgiveness I will strangle you.”

“Ah, no.” He takes a large slurp of his soup. Cyrene relaxes slightly against the tree. “I was going to talk about the other side of his teachings. They are about craftsmanship.” Cyrene doesn’t speak as Petyr continues eating. “Your glaive is beautifully made.”

“Oh,” well that’s not a bad topic. “Go on.”

…

“One day, you’ll see that this is the best stew you’ve ever had.” He says, holding his bowl at the foot of the tree. He doesn’t even lift it towards her anymore. He knows she won’t take it, but he asks anyway. She crosses her legs with a small smirk.

“Don’t count on it.” She says. He’s still smiling up at her. The rest of the group is laughing by the fire but she doesn’t see them. She sees him. “Thank you.” She says, and it’s for more than the food.

“Anytime.” He says, and she thinks he knows.

Curse

It will cost a finger to reverse the curse that turned Mergun into a rabbit. Cyrene will not offer, and she doubts the others will either.

“I’m a musician,” Ceola says, “or I totally would.” She is kind, Cyrene thinks, and foolish; As she had been before.

“I will not.” Cyrene says. A life as a bunny is not the life he’d hoped to live, but there were worse fates to befall an adventurer. Mylos and Siegfrid say nothing.

“I will.” Petyr says, walking towards the mage. Cyrene is not surprised. Petyr is kind. Cyrene holds an arm out to stop him. Petyr did not leave her behind. He doesn’t know how cruel they are.

“There has to be another way.” She tries.

“There’s no time,” Petyr says. As if it’s that simple. As if Mergun has a crucial part to play in this.

“It shouldn’t be you.” She says next. The mage said that it needed someone who knew him well. Petyr has been with them the least. The only reason its him in the first place is that the others stayed silent.

“I don’t mind.” He says. “A finger for a friend.”

“They wouldn’t do it for you,” She says. They won’t even do it for their precious Mergun. Petyr’s eyes are fire as they meet hers. All this time begging her to talk to him and now he won’t listen. He is determined to be yet another tool they sacrifice to avoid consequences. He is proud to be used, but wasn’t she?

Nightbeard cackles in her head as Petyr defends them. He talks about trust and loyalty from the group that left her. He talks about sacrifice as if she hadn’t given a life. Cyrene’s memory drags her back to that first day in the forest where she had nothing but their betrayal to fuel her rage and keep her from the cold. The years that passed like decades alone in that forest. Her heart thunders in her chest as she looks over everyone. If Nightbeard had not chained her to them until the seals are all recovered she would have left long ago. The pair still say nothing. She doesn’t want them to hurt Petyr too.

Oh, she realizes in shock, I care about him.

“I may not be able to stop you, but I don’t have to stay here and watch this.” She turns to anger, a safer emotion, a more familiar emotion. Petyr looks like he wants to argue, but she turns around to storm away. She runs through town. She doesn’t let the tears come as she ducks through crowds and makes her way towards the middle of the city.

People are looking at her. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care! Her arm begins to warm as she as she makes her way to one of the parks. Nightbeard is unhappy, but she doesn’t care. He didn’t say she had to babysit them. They can have their little ritual without her. She finds a strong tree, but her arm burns as she reaches up to grab the bark. “Relax,” Cyrene hisses as she grabs the arm. Her arm sears with burning pain. More punishment? “I’m not leaving them.” She says as she grits her teeth. The pain forces her down to her knees. “The seals will be recovered.” She promises. The pain vanishes and even the cooler arm hurts now. She hates. She hates and she doesn’t care. She climbs the tree to be alone with her thoughts.

There are no spies in the city, but there are many people. She watches them from above as the soreness in her arm reminds her of why she hates. There are many people around, even as the sun sets over the city, so she watches them all living life. She watches a couple hold hands as they watch the sun. She watches a brother and sister play in the grass.

Night falls.

The drunks come out. The people of the night. The city grows loud in a way the forest isn’t. Loud in a way that tells her she won’t be getting any sleep tonight.

“Cyrene!” Ceola drunkenly shouts from below. She’s with Petyr. Stupid, righteous, Petyr with 9 fingers. Ceola zips up the tree to sit next to her and babbles, but she can only lock eyes with Petyr. They are still warm.

“Your sacrifice is accepted,” She hears in memory.

She tells him. She cares and its stupid but she tells him. It matters that he understands. It matters that he is on her side. She grabs her arm, still warm to the touch, and tells him how she suffered. How even when they met again they laughed at her suffering. She tells him that she is duty bound by the life she gave to save them. His eyes widen as he listens. She sees tears form. Maybe he understands now. At least he only gave a finger.

Except he doesn’t.

He speaks of second chances. He speaks of forgiving people their worst moments. He begs her to talk to them and let them in. He thinks that perhaps they don’t understand. He thinks that Mergun is worth saving. He thinks that they are better people than she’s telling him.

He… He thinks she’s wrong.

It doesn’t matter. They have one seal to collect. That must be her sole focus. One seal. 2 weeks. Then she never has to see any of these people again.

Paid

The last seal lay in the middle of the altar. Four priests (old, skinny, frail priests that could fall with a single swing of her glaive) chant around it. It should be an easy fight, but anticipation prickles at the back of her neck. She’s sweating. She doesn’t usually get nervous before battles.

She’s been off all night.

She hid from the one group of enemies, snuck around instead of fighting – adrenaline clenching her heart and body in such a vice grip she couldn’t even climb a wall without falling – and now she sees them and her first thought is to stop. Listen. Plan.

They didn’t plan a way out, and she knows what that means. It doesn’t have to mean anything if this all goes right, if they plan now.

Mergun’s arrow signals the start of their ambush, and Cyrene slides down the rope with ease. Here in the thick of battle, she shines. Except, the priests vanish and her glaive slices through thin air. How? The seal is gone.

Then she hears the laughter.

It’s not Nightbeard, but it sounds like him. Cruel and echoing against the stone walls. Dread seeps into her stomach. This is wrong, all wrong. A pocket in the sky opens up and people slide down one by one. Then the fighting really begins.

The hulking metal man walks towards her with his sword held high. Cyrene swings her glaive to intercept him except her body isn’t working anymore. Her thoughts blur, her grip slackens. She recognizes the feeling of magic seeping into her skin. It’s a slow spell. She can’t even dodge as he slices her midsection and her arm. She can’t even seem to react; the pain takes a second to erupt across her body.

Then there is an explosion. Maybe one of Mergun’s arrows? The explosion sends pieces flying towards her, and a cut on her forehead begins gushing blood over her face. Retreat. She has to retreat.

Another fighter with twin swords advances with malice in his eyes. She knows she’s an easy target right now. She feels lightheaded from all the blood she’s losing. She’s dizzy. She can barely see. The blade slices into her shoulder with agony. She lets out a sharp gasp of air. She barely manages to dodge the second blow. Her eyes catch Petyr’s unconscious body as she spins away. He’s coughing up blood. He’s not… he’s not going to make it unless she helps.

She turns and runs to him. Everything is slow now. The slash against her back sends another wave of fire across her skin and stars dance in her vision. She falls to her knees and then crawls over to Petyr. Stupid, righteous, Petyr. Kind Petyr. She can hear the armor of the metal man behind her and knows that she can’t do both, not with how slow she is.

She’s… she’s going to be the one who won’t make it…

“You said I’d be free after the seals, but you knew.” Cyrene says as she chooses Petyr. For all her posturing, she could never be that cold, never choose herself. No need to scream. Death isn’t the end, not really. How many times has she wished warriors better hunts in their next life? Will Nightbeard help? Will he send her magic now to help her? No. Nightbeard’s probably watching her in his fucking cauldron right now. Maybe he saw this before he even asked for her life. Time is different here. He asked her for her life. “So you know, you always knew.” Petyr gasps up at her as the potion works its magic. He’s looking up at her with wide eyes. Will she remember anything in her next life? Has she truly done enough? Had she earned her warriors spirit? “Is that what you meant, you fucking bastard!?”

She hears the air leave her lungs more than she feels it at the blow. She hears her scream more than she remembers screaming. The sword is so far into her back that it takes him extra effort to move it. She almost falls backwards with it. She coughs. She trembles. Petyr meets her gaze but she can’t see him through the stars and blackness in her vision.

He’d called her his hero.

Her fingers fumble for her glaive. As long as she breathes, she will fight. As long as she can hold her glaive she’s got a chance. She fights off his shield bash and rises to unsteady feet. She can hear the roar of fire and the screams of battle behind her, but she’s got one enemy here.

An arrow explodes in his face, and he reaches up to claw at his blind eyes. Petyr moves away and Cyrene follows. She has one more health potion. It might be enough.

The fighter with dual swords steps around the column in front of her. The metal man blindly swings for her. She’s trapped. It takes a single second of hesitation, that’s all it usually takes. He grins as he slices her open. Breast to hip. A nice long clean slice. A deep slice. A fatal slice. Her breath is gone. Her power is gone. Her glaive slips from her fingers as she falls.

She can barely keep her eyes open as he stands over her. Her heart beat thunders in her head but it’s not right. She knows it’s not right. She’s dying.

He lifts her glaive up. His trophy. His prize. His prize for his kill. Cyrene feels her throat fill with blood. She can’t breathe. It hurts so bad and so much and its everywhere. He swings it first. Testing it. He’d never use it as well as her. He points the glaive down. Cyrene entertains the brief thought of reaching up, of stabbing his eyes out, of rolling out of the way and springing to her feet, but she can only watch as it comes down.

Figures she could be slain with no weapon other than her own.

Her glaive stabs her chest with finality. She’s dead before he turns it, before he pulls it out, before he turns away.

She doesn’t hear Petyr’s anguished cry. Doesn’t feel the way he shields her body as he takes his last breaths before an arrow pierces his neck. She doesn’t see the golden orb in the sky that signals reinforcements. She doesn’t know that they win or that her debt has been paid.

Her life, for theirs.