When the Wizard returned to his sanctum, Asarah crept as far under the table as her chain would allow. She sat wide-eyed and frozen like a rabbit who hopes the fox does not see her.

But at that moment, Dimsbury had no attention to spare for her. As soon as he entered the room he was drawn to the Flame. He muttered to himself, “Brighter. More resolved. But how can this be?” Dimsbury looked around the chamber. He waved a hand at the wall sconces, and they burst into flame, overpowering the uncertain Magic Flame and filling the room with an honest, if sooty, light.

A glance down revealed the cause. From Relan’s body, a rivulet of blood flowed across the floor to the dais on which the Flame sat. “Could it be?” Dimsbury asked. He bent, dipped his fingers into the blood, and held them above the Flame. As blood dripped downward into the confluence of Magic, the Flame was transformed through a brilliant range of hues, and seemed more substantial at the end of it.

Dimsbury turned to what was left of Relan and said, “You’re not completely useless after all, what a pleasant surprise!”

The Wizard wasted no time in having Relan strung up by his ankles over the Flame. What little blood remained in the poor boy dripped into the cool, hypnotic light. The Flame lapped greedily at the blood and became more focused and defined with each drop.

Asarah wept at the gruesome sight. She wept for Relan, who had tried to be a Hero and had failed. And now the stuff of his life was drained out to… it was horrible. She wept for herself, surely about to meet the same end. And yes, she wept for Boltac. He was no Hero. He was not equipped even to save himself. But still, he had come for her.

She had forgotten her earlier words, but now they came back: “But that’s how she knows that he truly Loves her.” Boltac wasn’t a prince. This wasn’t a storybook or a saga, but he had come for her. It was not what she expected from romance, but it was true. Or had been. Now Boltac was dead, never to return. And she had been so cruel to him.

Grief piled upon grief and sorrow upon sorrow. But she was so afraid, she dared not give voice to her pain. Silent tears streamed down her face as if they could flood the interior of the earth.

When Relan’s blood stopped flowing, Dimsbury swung him away from the Flame and hacked the cords holding him up with a knife. The lad’s body fell to the floor in an awful heap.

Without looking at Asarah, Dimsbury addressed her in a voice loud enough to make her jump. “My dear, I have good news and bad news!”

She did not answer. She did not even move.

“The good news is that I no longer require you to be my cook.”

All thought left Asarah. She screamed.

“Seize her!” Dimsbury commanded. The screaming was perfect, thought Dimsbury. It was all according to form, the way such things were to be done. But the Orcs did not move towards her. This wasn’t right at all. It made her scream seem pointless and silly.

Exasperated, Dimsbury exclaimed, “Her, there under the table. Grab her. Her. THAT ONE!” He made wild, uninterpretable thrashing gestures with his hands. “The screaming one!”

The Orcs finally got the idea and seized the woman. As they dragged her out, she struggled so violently that she knocked herself unconscious on the table leg. As Dimsbury watched the Orcs tie her feet to the ropes that would dangle her above the Flame of Magic, he wondered aloud, “Where is Samga? He was here just a minute ago.”