Arlette kept the blade in the woman’s back and grabbed her throat. “Hello, Fasha.”

Dere hunched over, hands at his sides, and breathed in and out, focusing on anything but the pain. “You know her?” He wheezed out through slow breaths.

Arlette gave him a mildly sympathetic look. “She’s Besson’s hired help.” Fasha sneered at Dere and writhed around in Arlette’s grasp. Arlette only had to move the dagger a little for her to stop.

“Perfect.” Dere said as he straightened himself out. “Then she can tell us where Besson is.”

He slugged Fasha in the stomach. The punch came out weaker than it normally would, but it still had the desired effect of bowing her over. “Why don’t you tell us, Fasha?” Despite the pain, his voice didn’t waver. It came out cold and calm.

“Fuck you.”

Arlette twisted the dagger and Fasha screamed. “Sorry,” Dere said. “I couldn’t quite catch that.”

She met his hardened coal black eyes, anger turning them from their usual grey. “I said, fuck you.”

Dere sighed and punched her again. “You know Fasha, I wanted to do this the easy way? I always hated doing this.” His right hand launched out and latched around her neck while his other hand pointed at the ground, towards Fasha’s shadow. Her deep brown eyes met his unnatural black ones and an eerie smile flitted across his lips. She looked down at her shadow, which was shifting and moving unnaturally.

“What are you doing?” Arlette asked. Sudden uncertainty lacing the edge of her tone.

“You’ll see.” With a gesture, Dere dragged the shadow up from the ground and towards Fasha. She wriggled and screamed in his iron grasp, unsure what Dere wanted to do but certain it was bad. Dere kept hauling the shadow up, ignoring the waves of fatigue that the effort shot through his beaten body. When the shadow reached Fasha, it entered inside her and dissapeared from sight. Suddenly, the screams stopped. “Arlette, you can let her go now.”

Arlette released the woman and looked Dere dead in his frightening eyes. “What are you?”

“If I told you, you wouldn't believe me.” He smiled at her. It resembled his usual good-natured grin, but none of his usual emotion reached those coal black eyes.

“You might be surprised.”

“Doubt it.” She frowned at the non-answer, perturbed by the way Dere skirted around her questions. However, she knew him well enough by this point to understand no more clarification would be coming.

Dere focused his attention on the now limp Fasha. “Look at me.” She obeyed without question and met his stare. Arlette sucked in a silent breath. Fasha’s normally brown eyes had been replaced, covered over by an ever shifting grey mass of shadows. “Tell me, Fasha,” Dere’s anger leaked into his words. He spoke with an emphasis on every syllable. “Where is he?”

“Heading back to Vicare.” Fasha’s voice sounded emotionless and seemed to come from somewhere distant. “He’ll be long gone by now.”

Dere’s grip around her neck tightened. “Well then, you’ll just have to tell me what I want to know. Who gave Duval the faceless men?”

“A man.” Fasha responded without hesitation. “I’ve only ever seen him at a distance. They call him Finger.”

“Why?”

“He claims to be the finger of the gods. Their way of touching the mortal world.”

Dere’s mind raced through the possibilities. Options arose, all of them imperfect. “Which god?”

“He doesn’t say.”

Dere made no attempt to hide his aggravation. He knew the way of things. There were never answers only an ever increasing tower of questions. He moved on. “When did he contact Duval?”

“Before the eve of the final battle. He only talked to Duval and Besson. That’s all I know. I wasn’t there.”

All at once his tiredness caught up to him. He loosened his grip and drew in a labored breath. “Of course you weren’t.” He closed his eyes for a long second before opening them again. When he did, they had returned to their normal grey. “Tell me. How? How has he done it? How has he brought them back?”

Fasha’s unblinking shadowy eyes stared straight through him. “He found the dark goddess.”

Dere’s fading anger reignited all at once. The tiredness and the pain were both forgotten. “What!?” His grip became like a vice. Fasha’s dark face went red. He hissed. “That’s impossible.” Fasha remained limp in his grasp. The odd passivity that consumed her was unshaken by his display of rage. With a scream, he ripped the shadow out of her. “How did he find it!?”

Fasha’s eyes, brown once more, looked away from Dere, fleeing from his rage. “I don’t know.” In the back of his consciousness, he heard Arlette scream his name.

Dere roared and stabbed his blade through Fasha's heart. Both her and Arlette both watched him in surprise. Fasha looked down at the shadowy blade impaling her chest. The sword drew upon her power and leeched upon the piece of divinity in her body, taking it into itself. She gave him one last look of defiance before collapsing to the ground.

Arlette turned on him, mild disapproval crossing her stoic face. “That could have been handled better.

“She had nothing more to tell us.” The usual certainty he carried at all times seemed to be absent from his demeanor. Exhaustion pressed down on him again. He sat on the floor.

Arlette let silence envelop the courtyard for a few seconds before pressing him. “Do you believe her? Do you think they found her?” Arlette spoke with uncharacteristic uncertainty. She had crossed into territory she didn’t understand.

“She didn’t lie.” Dere murmured. “That doesn’t mean it's true.”

“What if they did?”

“Then the faceless men are just the beginning, and Duval’s even more untouchable than I thought.” His voice was weighed down by a thousand emotions.

Arlette sat next to him. Her appearance, usually so crisp and pristine, had fallen into disrepair. She seemed almost as tired as Dere. “What now?”

Dere looked around at the fires and the dead. “I don’t know.”

He heard a groan behind him. Frederic, who had fallen unconscious during the fight, stirred. Dere hauled himself up and walked over to stand over the man. Frederic had made out well, better than Dere had. They looked at each other and Dere offered out a hand.

“Bastard.” Frederic murmured. Dere wasn’t sure whether that was aimed at him or Besson, both made sense. Either way he accepted the hand and Dere pulled him to his feet. Frederic stumbled around for a second, eyeing the extent of the devastation. He grunted when he saw Fasha’s body. Then, with slow painful steps, he hauled himself in the direction of the manor.

“Besson’s not in there.” Said Dere as he watched the man with pity.

“No, but Dylan is.” Step by painful step, he dragged himself forward. Dere watched him walk away and followed him. Arlette sighed and trailed behind them.

Together, they navigated the torn up courtyard. The fires seemed to part for Frederic as he passed, like water around a ship. It allowed them to reach the gate easily. Dere grabbed the charred handle and flung the door open.

The inside had held together well. The explosion collapsed parts of the building and blackened many others, but the structure stood. The people inside hadn’t made out as well. Bodies of guards and servants littered the floor, some burned others cut open. It seemed someone besides Fasha had been cleaning up.

Frederic staggered forward, the weight of worry on his back. Dere followed him down the corridor. They reached a room at the far end and Frederic pushed it open. Inside was a small but ornate bedroom. On a bed in the center, Dylan lay still, unburnt but cut open so that his guts spewed out over the fine bedding. Frederic said nothing as he saw his dead son. No reaction betrayed whatever grief he must have felt. He simply stood there, looking at his son’s corpse.

“Leave.” He murmured. Dere and Arlette looked at him. “I said leave!” Noiselessly, they left him. Dere couldn’t quite tell, but, as he limped down the hall, he thought he heard sobs behind him.