Aralyn limps, stumbles, and crawls her way to Allastair. She falls onto him, his smoldering body burning hers. With a cry, Aralyn turns away, hands clamped over her mouth to hold back the revulsion.

No. She shakes her head, forcing herself to look. I don’t know he’s gone. There’s still hope. There must be.

She rips open her shoulder bag and starts digging, but her bleeding hands make a mess of everything until she can’t distinguish one bloody packet from the next and she has to stop.

Please. Aralyn clutches her trembling hands to her belly and leans forward until her forehead touches the damp grass, gulping down lungfuls of hysteria. Please.

As if hearing her, the sky lightens, black turning to blue. Aralyn reaches out, puts two fingers against Allastair’s neck, ignoring the sizzling of her skin.

But there is no pulse. And unlike the God Gier, Allastair needs a pulse to live.

“Fuck!” Aralyn pounds a fist against the knight’s chest, caving in the steel chestplate with a hollow thunk.

She remembers the knight’s joy at finally getting this set of armor after months of saving. The first time he donned it, she couldn’t stop herself from hugging him. He looked unstoppable.

Aralyn lowers her fists, and looks at Allastair’s face, his burnt-out eyes, and his crusty skin. She turns away. Agony and sorrow well inside her, choking her.

I’m sorry.

Aralyn tries to get up, but pain forces her down. She crawls, digging her nails into the soft mud, until she gets to Fennald, lying just a few meters away.

The boy is already cold. Aralyn touches his neck, staring at his ear so she does not have to look at his unseeing eyes. She listens for breathing, praying for a miracle because she knows she can’t make one.

He’s dead.

Aralyn curls in on herself, pushing her palms into her eyes.

Gone. Forever.

A splintery rage tumbles out of the elf. She glares at the stupid sword sticking out of Fennald chest, as if this is all its fault. She grasps onto the blade with both hands, squeezing it hard until her blood spills down the steel. With a cry, she yanks the sword out, and slams her hands against the hole in Fennald’s chest.

“Helhala!” she croaks with her broken voice.

A soft light pulses from beneath her palms, but dies quickly. Aralyn tries again, and again, slapping Fennald’s chest over and over until her voice is gone and her arms go numb. It is only when Aralyn realizes that the gap in the boy’s chest has not been bleeding that she stops, and looks at him. Fennald’s face is almost peaceful as he stares at the pale blue sky, his eyes reflecting nothing but emptiness.

Aralyn touches his eyelids, closes them, knowing he will never open them again.

I'm sorry.

She goes to wipe away the drops of blood on his cheek, but her fingers smear a muddy trail of red across his face instead.

And then, it is too much for her.

Sunrise breezes through the realm like a lover’s touch, chasing the fog away and blessing the woods with the scent of light.

The lonely girl kneels by her friend, cradling his head in her lap. There is not a single note of sound in the clearing, save for the gentle pattering of tears dropping from the girl’s eyes, washing away the blood on the dead boy’s face.