In Duskroot or, she imagines, even Solaroch — in any proper stronghold — lanterns would line the streets, casting the pale yellow light of luciflies or the chemical blue rays of of Ngini’s mix. In a town like Wisterun, though? Can they not afford a few banes to put up lights — or is it just that roaches and ants didn’t need it?

Twilight now, distant sunrays still touch the sky, reaching out from below the horizon with red and purple fingers. The streets are empty above Awelah’s eye level — most mantis imagos must have turned in for the evening already. Below her eye level, smaller bugs fill in the flow. Roaches liked the evening time, and ants didn’t mind.

“Did we, well, do we have anything to make torches?” Ooliri asks. He’d been eyeing the advancing shadows with unease and bemusement that seemed like a less guarded mirror of Awelah. He looks at her, and then at Makuja behind them, then at Quessa beside him.

Awelah’s looking around too. The shifting glances, in place of any real response, is answer enough.

“That could be a problem,” Makuja says. “It will be night by the time we find Vilja.”

“I could do something with rifts, maybe. Or maybe I could start a fire if we find some conk or wood to burn,” Quessa offers.

Awelah glances at the green nymph. “Rifts?”

“You know, like in a riftstorm.”

Awelah glanced upward.

Ooliri says, “When too much energy saturates enervate, it has to go somewhere, and if the enervate can’t just disperse — if it’s all drawn together into wisp clouds, or if a vesperbane is molding it — then, well, you end up with rifts. Enervate radiating so much light it shines as it cools. Emusa said it’s kind of like, well, lightning.”

“Not a very efficient way to make light,” Makuja says. “Burns energy and burns enervate.”

“I have good umbra control!” Quessa says. “Yanseno says I use a really tiny amount of enervate in my techniques.”

“You’d have to,” Ooliri murmurs, “with the techniques you use.”

“What was that?” The green nymph frowns.

“Oh, sorry.” Ooliri is looking away, looking, momentarily, at anything else — Awelah, Makuja. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” she says. Her frown melts away after just a moment.

The quartet walk west through gateside, passing tall mantid buildings interspersed with tunnel mouths which ants — and, rarely, a roach or two — climb in and out of. The main streets are wide enough to bear carts, and between them stretch little footpaths, like regularly-trafficked alleyways. It’s when passing by one of those that Makuja, at the rear of the party, pauses.

By the alleymouth, she listens, eyes lighting on the back of a mantis, familiar in their bare, greybrown prothorax and coat hanging about their lower legs. This imago stands before a mantis leaning against the wall, antennae sagging.

“—pain, or lower spirits, then I’ve got just the thing! Imported from a ‘esperbane stronghold, exclusively supplied! They call it the archonsblood elixir. Brewed from a single drop of a dead god’s blood — it grants vigor! Youth! Power! And it could be yours,” she says.

The speaker is cut off by the lower rubbing of the leaning mantid’s palps. They didn’t speak with the same volume, and it doesn’t carry.

“No, no, it’s quite legitimate, I’ll assure you. Saw the banesproof and everything. I paid six bones to get my spines on one bottle of this stuff — I could let you have it for twice that and it’d still be a mighty tight deal.”

Another reply, shorter this time.

“Stock’s low, very low — you turn this down, and you ain’t getting another shot. Do you even have a plan for the leg of yours? My archonsblood elixir would fix you right up! I’ll knock it down to eight bones, just ‘cause you need it

Makuja had heard enough. She’s bent low, a small silhouette blending in the shadows off the alley mouth. Ahead of her, the other nymphs had noticed her absence, and doubled back. Quessa walks at the front, and the green nymph’s stride takes her out in front of the alley as returns to Makuja, her look frowny and inquisitive. Makuja’s lifted labrum gives her hesitation. White eyes meet green, and Makuja has one question: “You said Mogs riffled through our bags, didn’t you?”

“I think so,” she starts, ending indefinite. She glances to Ooliri, who nods. Then she says, “Why do you ask?”

Makuja looks back at the greybrown mantis, a knife in her hand.

“No murder,” Ooliri says. “Don’t hurt anybody.”

The knife disappears into a sleeve. “Of course,” Makuja says. “We’re on a mission right now.”

She gives Mogs another, final glance, but now, the greybrown imago has turned around. She’s not looking at Makuja, though.

Mogs is looking at Quessa.

“You,” she scrapes. She takes a step forward, eyes dark with pigment, gaze trained intently on the green nymph.

Narrow focus, no environmental awareness. How laic. Muscles stretching with vespertine speed, Makuja appears from her occluded spot and swifts over the distances to Mogs. This movement catches the imago’s eyes. By the time Mogs looks, the red and black nymph already stands before her.

Makuja doesn’t have a knife out. It’d be a waste, she thinks. I’d need to clean the blade.

Mogs has gone still. Paling eyes take in Makuja, her headband, and then the gaze darks back to Quessa — where Ooliri and Awelah have stepped forward.

Makuja reaches out, wraps a tarsus around at the dirty glass bottle Mogs had been waving around. Her grip is tight, and Mogs is jumping enough she can’t keep hold of it.

“The payment,” Makuja says, “is having time to run.”

Mogs brushes palps in a unintelligible murmur, scowls, and takes a step back. When nobody moves, she turns and starts out of the alleyway. Mogs is glancing back — at Quessa, at the mantis leaning against the wall — and then gone.

“That’s one way to tell ‘em to fuck off,” the mantis leaning against the wall says, their voice quiet, with strain as of suppressed groans.

“You’re hurt.” By now, Ooliri has had time to enter the alleyway.

“It that obvious?”

“You smell like hemolymph,” Awelah says. “So yes.”

“What happened?”

“Stepped on an ant,” they say. “Big fucking ant, must be a soldier or some shit. Fucker gave me a nasty bite and was shaking me till a little one came over and calmed it down. With how many bigs were around and eyeing me I prolly owe my life to that bug.”

“Can I see the bite?” Ooliri has a foretarsus unspooling a bit of bandage from his other arm.

“Heh, it ain’t a pretty sight, kid. But I guess you’ve seen worse if you’re banes.” The imago pulls aside the cloak draped over their shoulders, revealing two puncture marks near the base of the prothorax.

“I could try to heal it, if you want?”

“No.” The answer is fast and firm, louder than anything else they’ve said.

“Right, I’ll just — wait, did you say no? Why?”

“Don’t need no debt. Wouldn’t be bleeding out in an alley if I could afford fuck or all. And I’d rather bleed out in an alley than be in a bane’s debt. Don’t got anything to take, I promise you.”

“Well, I don’t want to take anything,” Ooliri says. “I just want to help.”

“Sure, sure.” Their eyes flicker up. “And how convenient you don’t have a plate to swear on. Vesperbanes don’t do charity.”

Ooliri frowns, antennae drooping down.

Makuja watches this, and sighs. “You don’t realize,” she says, “that he’s been a vesperbane for a few shades. He doesn’t know anything. He’s soft enough to want to do it for free — and naive enough to not even think you’d expect him to ask for recompense.”

They arch an antennae, giving Ooliri another look. “So you are just nymphs.”

“Only him,” Awelah says. The pale nymph pushes forward, inserting herself in front of the red nymph. “And you’re wrong. You do have something valuable — something we want. Ooliri is willing to heal you… if you tell us everything you know about the ants that did this, first.”

The alley mantis clicks their mandibles. Slipping the cloak off their prothorax, they say, “Nah. You heal me first, and if I like the way it feels, I’ll see what I remember.”

Awelah holds the imago’s eye for a moment, frowning, then nods. Stepping aside, she lets Ooliri approach.

Makuja had seen the Asetari’s genuine frowns often enough to sense something missing from this one. Had it been an act? Exaggerating their desire for information to negotiate a seemingly equitable exchange — for the laymant’s sake?

Whatever the Asetari’s intent, the desire for information had been an exaggeration, not a fabrication. As Makuja watches the Silverbane make the signs for ⸢Serum Form: Pure Healing Palm⸥, she’s treated to the curious and ever more frequent sensation of thinking the same thing as the Asetari.

Why are so many soldier ants gathered? Why are they out where a mantis could encounter them?

Watching ants move reminded Ooliri of watching his uncle weave. So many threads running in parallel or cross over and intertwining without losing that greater sense of order. If the ants are the cloth, he thinks, who is the weaver?

As Team Duskborn, plus Quessa, walk west into hillside, the amount and proportion of ants has only climbed. Still climbs, for they see more and more tunnel doors replacing the mantid towers and roach burrows.

Ooliri realized it’s probably not a coincidence, or even a design. It would be hard to build a house on terrain this uneven. It could be leveled, of course — that only took one earthnurse to manage. Or you could just leave it for the ants.

“We’re being followed,” Makuja says. Quessa had warmed up enough to let the scary nymph walk beside her now, so everyone can see her slow, can follow her gaze back and spot the red-clothed ant flanked by two big soldiers.

“Isn’t it, uh, usually better to not let them know you know? In the stories they say ‘don’t look.’”

Makuja hums. “Perhaps it were vesperbanes following us.”

“That’s not fair.” Quessa frowns. “I think the ants could also kill us.”

“Easily,” Awelah says. “There are a lot of them.”

There are a lot of small ants, who look even smaller swaddled up in their cloth. Still, those tailing aren’t the only soldiers out — the injured alley mantid’s tip had been accurate, after all.

Around them, there are big, sparsely clothed ants following after their smaller conspecifics, like loyal pets. The soldiers were big — the disparity is like that between a roach and a mantis. Being mere nymphs, these banes are just about the soldiers’ size.

“Maybe they’re not all soldiers,” Ooliri says. “Not all of the majors are, I think. There are so many different kinds of ant. But they’re all one species. It’s weird.”

Awelah’s eyes are on one of westward majors. “I recognize the look from this morning at the gate. Look at those mandibles. They’re for hurting. With everything else happening… it’s not a coincidence. Can’t be.”

“We should ask!” Quessa stops walking, and the pale nymph bumps into her abdomen. The pale nymph gets batted again when the green nymph spins and starts back toward their pursuers. Awelah glances away from the bouncy nymph to Makuja. Quietly, she asks, “You got an escape route planned?”

Ooliri clicks his mandibles. “You should have more trust in her.” He breaks away to more closely watch the exchange with the red-clothed ant.

The soldiers stand with waving antennae and, as if having inspected Quessa to their liking, take a step back while the chirping small ant advances two steps.

The green nymph brings her hands together — the soldiers jerk down to watch them, tensing. But she finishes in a moment, and black nerve trickles forth to form a tight orb which then glows, faint light shining forth. When the light hits Red Cloth, antennae fold down to cover small eyes. Adjusting after a moment, the light lets Quessa read the ant’s message in the waning evening light.

“Ho! [Bat-bug] has [approach] of [colony]. [Inquiry] for [purpose] and [mother].”

Quessa frowns deeply when this one finishes. It disappears after a moment. “We came to meet with the One Who Bites Water. We came for an audience with the One Who Shapes the Sky Below.”

“Bah. [Bat-bug] has [business : none] with the One Who [Shapes] the [Sky : Below]. So [begone!]”

“That’s not true.”

Makuja looks down at the ant. “Do you even know anything about this sky-shaper’s business?”

Quessa nudges the red nymph, stepping in front of her. To her, she whispers, “Please don’t get us in trouble.”

The ant indicates, “No [bat-bug] nor One Who [Bites] [Water] has [station] for [speaking] of One Who [Shapes] the [Sky : Below.]”

“We—”

“Nai! [Silence] of [bat-bug.] This one is [reporting] of [intrusion].”

Ooliri glances at Quessa. “Is that bad?”

“Nai! [Silence].”

The soldier ants make a sound that’s lower-pitched, harsher. Between them, the ant has unfurled a length of cloth and is licking it and biting the threads. After moments of this, the ant whistles high. Ooliri fans an antennae and catches a sharp smell.

In response to the whistle or the smell, a new ant breaks off from the greater weave. This one stands before Red Cloth and nods in dereference. The licked cloth is offered and taken, and then six legs are scurrying off, deeper into hillside.

Watching the others watch that one go, Awelah asks, “Is there a reason we’re waiting around here on… whatever this is? With all respect,” she says, eyeing the small ant. “I don’t care about whatever misunderstanding this one has.”

Rather than the green nymph, Red Cloth answers: “[Bat-bug] is [detained.]”

Makuja lifts a skeptical antennae.

Quessa says, “We’re going to use their tunnels. So I think it’s only polite to respect their will rather than just barging in.”

Awelah sighs, resigned to waiting. Makuja is folding her legs beneath her and begins doing… something (arete-binding?) that unsettles the ants. Ooliri tries asking a few questions that Red Cloth only answers with “Nai!” (Then he tries the soldiers, and these two only grunt.). Quessa gazes out to the forested horizon and the slowly arriving stars, inscrutable smile settling on her face.

It takes minutes for another ant to arrive, bearing the response. Red Cloth chews on it, then chirps an unintelligible sequence of prepositions. No one can clearly make out the words on this one’s cloth. Quessa gets jolted out of her reverie and reminded of what they’re doing by Ooliri, then she casts the light again.

“[Expectation] of [bat-bug] at [intersect] of [Passage : Rocky, Bare] and [Tunnel : Crooked, Center].”

“Is that an… address?”

“Would you mind guiding us there?” Quessa asks.

“Nai! This one who [patrols : honorably] has [duty : important!] [Bat-bugs] not [important.]”

Makuja folds her antennae.

But she doesn’t even move her palps before Quessa blurts, “Please don’t.”

Red Cloth pats the other small ant on the head. “This one who [delivers] can [guide] the [bat-bugs.]”

That one — draped in pink and blue cloth — turns to the nymphs, jolting as if startled. This one lowers into a bow, antennae dipping low before indicating, “Um, hi. [Safety] for [pleading]? [Guidance] for [eater-bug], [swiftness] of [guidance], [correctness] of [guidance]! This one [promises.]”

The swiftness is impaired somewhat by the ant repeatedly glancing back at those who follow. The correctness, they can hope, is unimpaired.

They spot a familiar ant in blue cloth at the intersection of Bare Rocky Passage and Crooked Center Tunnel. They’d been half-blind following the pink and blue ant, but here at the intersection, torches burn, and the One Who Bites Water stands under the flickering light of one.

This one is busy with… kissing? Another ant has mandibles and maxillae wide, pushing against this one, interlocking. Their antennae pairs are wrapped around each other.

The two ants abruptly break it off when the arriving nymphs, side by side, take up enough of their field of view. Bites Water turns to them, a foreleg wiping this one’s mouth. This one’s partner slips away, and a moment later is pulling another ant into a kiss.

“[Apologies] for [failure],” Bites Water indicates. “The one who [Shapes] the [Sky : Below] has no [arrangement] for [extraction] of the ones who are [Quessa].” Then, the ant looks up, looking between them as if realizing who this one is talking to. “Err, wha. The ones who are [Quessa] have [arrival]? But [arrangement] was [failure].”

“We got lucky! Yanseno was pulled away, which let us slip out. So all you need to do is show up the way out.”

“Uh,” Bites Water chirps. “This one had a [arrangement : alternative.] It has [commencement : already.]”

Quessa frowns. “What did you do?”

“You, who are [Quessa], are [hunting] the [beast] of [blood]. But [beast] is [threat : possibly] for [colony]. So this one [persuaded] the One Who [Shapes] the [Sky : Below]. That one has [arrangement] for [defenders] of [colony] to do [hunting].”

Behind her, Awelah hikes her antennae, as if finally getting the answer to a question.

Quessa is shaking her head. “Bitey, that was a terrible idea.”

Ooliri nods, imagining those mauled bodies of ants, only rather than an anteater’s maw gnawing the chitin, it was a direhound. Still he says, “But it was only his idea. He’s not the one who authorized it.” Blues eyes look to the ant. “People keep talking about the One Who Shapes the Sky Below like they’re very important. Are they… your queen?”

“Ha, wha, haha. The one who [Shapes] is a [weaver] of [wisdom.] Our [mother] is She Whose [Womb] is Our [Lake]. Not [weaver].”

Partway through, there’s a whistle from an lighted alcove of the intersection. Bites Water finished speaking with shorter chirps and faster antennae jerks.

“This one [wastes] the [time] of those who are [Quessa]. You are [expected].”

“We aren’t Quessa,” Awelah says. “We are Team Duskborn.”

“What are we expected to do?”

“The one who [Shapes] the [Sky : Below] has [desire] to [weave] you.”

Every ant they have seen so far has fidgeted and fiddled with the cloth that wreathes them. The One who Shapes the Sky Below sits on a raised cushion and this one’s head is engulfed in a mountainous mass of cloth, myriad in colors, and there’s enough that it’s unclear if this one has a bigger head or just that much cloth. Two big torches on the wall behind cut ever shifting shadows from the angles of the face.

Before this one kneel two others, and here this one again is distinguished: forelegs reach out to the other ants, plucking and twisting their personal weaves with the same idle ease another ant would manipulate their own cloth.

As they arrive, the ant clad in the colorful cloth looks up, and the small black eyes settle on Awelah. The ants who kneel also turn and look, even as the One Who Shapes the Sky Below continues to pull on their strings. But one looks toward Quessa, and one looks toward Makuja. They chirp and antennate, and Ooliri can hardly follow what’s said.

To Awelah, the sitting ant conveys, “You, the one who [leads] the [Duskborn] has [intention] of [hunting] the [direhound], yes?”

To Quessa, the right ant conveys, “The one who [disgorges] [affection; attention] for that one,” (an antenna flicks towards Bites Water) “You [mark] the [trails] for the [messengers : lost] of [messengers : dead]?”

To Makuja, the left ant conveys, “the one who [menaces] our [colony] and [insults] our [patrol] has [presence : unwelcome]. So [kneel], and have [possibility] of your [stench] of [disrespect] will [waft].”

The ants all speak in different octaves, each stream of sound distinct,and each carefully timed not to overlap, like a grand bit of counterpoint. It still takes the nymphs addressed a moment to untangle their individual messages. The One who Shapes the Sky Below sits above, still pulling and twisting the threads and it’s hard not to feel impatience in the curl of this one’s palps, those mandibles yawning open.

Quessa responds first. “That’s correct, honored ant.”

“Your [message; trail] is [incomplete; lacking]. So [lead] us to the [remainder; truth].”

“I… there is no more. I could only store a summary of the contents.”

“[Summary] is [inadequate.]”

“It’s all I have.”

“[Bring] the [weft; message] in [entirety].”

“I can’t. We burned all of it with the bodies.”

“Then you have [inflicted] a [deprivation] upon the [library]. [Deprival] of our [wisdom; property].”

Quessa looks away.

Beside her, Makuja is having her own conversation. It had started earlier, with her response: “Was slaying a threat to your colony not enough?” Her legs remain straight, unkneeling.

“[Sufficient] for a [recompense]. Our [majors; brutes] will not [tear] the [limbs] from your [body]. That is all. You have no [right] of [walking] our [halls.]”

“You were called a weaver of wisdom. Are these threats very wise?”

“Your [blood] is as [oil] in [burning]. You would [alight] just like a [candle]. The [library] has [wisdom] of [weaknesses] of [vesperbanes]. [Nymphs] are [unfrightening]. So [kneel], or [begone].”

Meanwhile, Awelah was last to reply. “I will hunt the direhound and protect Wisterun. That is my purpose tonight.”

“[Colony] will [hunt] the [direhound]. You will [assist.]”

“I don’t think you should risk your soldiers. This isn’t a wild animal, it’s a direbeast. It might even be more than that. Leave it to us.”

“[Duskborn] had [time; shades] for [slaying] this [beast.] You have [failure].”

“We haven’t tried, not really. Now that we’ve coming for it… that dog stands no chance against us.”

“[Dog] against [nymphs : four] has [chance]. [Dog] against [majors : many] has [less].”

“I don’t believe it.”

But at this point, the ant to the left was lecturing Makuja about how well she burns, and the One Who Shapes the Sky Below inclined her head to make Awelah listen. Then, this one only adds, “[Blood] of [beast] is [blood] of [bat], and we will [burn.]”

The One Who Shapes the Sky Below lifts her forelegs and claps them together. The two ants turn round and lower themselves again, now almost prone, immediately silent as the weaver has no intentions for them. “This one has [completed] the [discourse]. No [more] is [necessary; desired]. The verdict is one,” — antennae point at Quessa — “You will [serve] the [colony] for your [deprival].” Antennae point at Makuja. “Two, you will [serve] the [colony] or never [befoul] these [halls] again.” With antennae for Awelah, this one concludes, “Three, you will [serve] the [colony], or [leave] the [hunting] for us.”

Following all of that made Ooliri’s head spin. The three ants spoke with rhythm and unity, like the weaver was conducting a symphony. Is two ants even the limit? What could a wise weaver do with a whole crowd of ants?

Still, Ooliri frowns. “I feel a little bit left out here,” he says.

When the weaver looks over, Ooliri at once regrets seeking this attention.

“The one who [[asks]] is like a [grub : hungry]. And this one is no [nurse]. The [young] are [annoying : always], the [drones : especially]. You will [follow] one of your friends.” Regarding the rest of the nymphs, the weaver pats a kneeling ant on the head. “This one will [guide]. Those who [serve] the [colony],[follow] the [troops.]” The One Who Shapes the Sky Below looks beyond them, and whistles for the attention of another subject.

When one kneeling ant, clad in golden brown, rises and approaches them, the tone of this one’s voice is wholly new without the weaver ‘conducting’ them. “Hi! [Following] in [line : orderly] for [pleading?]”

Like that, the Duskborn and Quessa are led west beneath the hills, to where the troops wait.

As they followed on into the dark ant tunnels, spooked repeatedly by the dark forms scuttling just beyond the light, Bites Water follows after them. Their guide has mandibles full with a torch, so it has fallen to that one to explain.

“All of these tunnels are big,” Ooliri notes. “Even the majors aren’t that tall.”

“The [Pantheca] has [law] that all of [space : public] must be [accessible] for [eater-bugs].”

“If this is a public space,” Makuja says. “Why were we detained?”

Bites water tilts head. “You are not [eater-bug.] You are [bat-bug.]”

As they walk on, Ooliri and Makuja have a few more questions, but Awelah is concerned with the hunt. The One Who Shapes, they’re told, had secured two troops of six soldiers for this operation, and there would be two minors — the term for small ants like this one — there to manage them: Bites Water, and their guide, who this one calls the One Who Rides Upon Fine Sands. These two would be those managers.

“You are going to be in command?” Awelah asks, looking this one up and down.

“This one is [assistance]. Our [commander] is the One who [Hungers] for [Spears].”

The bug in question, they find, wears cloth of a stark black on white. Only one antennae brushes over this one’s cloth: the other is severed at the bend. When they arrive, the One Who Hungers is manipulating the plain cloth worn by one of the soldiers. The ant waves them off when they approach, so the nymphs sit and wait. The other soldiers aren’t quite idle: about half of them are being kissed by ants with greatly swollen abdomens.

They all stand in a field with the Wisterun wall looming above them, and ferns swaying in the late evening breeze. When the commander finally makes time for them, three of them can’t understand. As if compensating for the antenna nub, this one’s style of conveyance has grown dextrous and quick, almost spider-like in the angles and distances covered.

Quessa follows, then engages the ant in a back and forth that excludes the rest of them. At times their interlocution is punctuated by her pulling out and presenting objects from her bag. Afterward, it falls to her to explain what’s up to Team Duskborn.

“This one came to tell us the plan, and ask what we have to offer.”

“Well?”

“What’s the plan?”

“I told that one what you told me about your abilities, and we worked out how to fit us in. We’re going to split up,” she says. “Two teams: pursuit and… and capture, that was it. You and you,” she says, pointing at Awelah and Makuja, “are going together to find the hound, scare it, and chase it toward us. I’ll use my technique to paralyze it and give the ants a chance to net it, douse it in oil, and burn it. Here,” Quessa passes some… bottles? Awelah grabs them, though Makuja can’t see them clearly. “I took some of Yanseno’s gunpowder from his gun chest to make these. They explode! It’ll scare the hound, and also hurt it. And if nothing else, we can hear it and see it, so it can be signal. No wait, these are supposed to be the signal.” She pulls out some more objects of a paper coating. “These will be really bright, and we’ll see it if you throw them up. Throw one if it’s coming. Throw two if it’s, no, throw three, if it flees. Throw two if you need help.”

Makuja intercepts Awelah, slipping in front to take the paper bombs. “I’m better at throwing.”

“Right, okee.” Quessa gestures behind them. “The ants back here will keep the fires lit. Whatever happens, we reunite here. Everything understood? The One Who Hungers isn’t the most patient, they’ll be leaving in a moment.”

The green nymph, yellow-fluffed boy following behind, breaks off to join the commander’s troop.

Makuja and the Asetari walk off, side by side. Team Duskborn is splitting up, setting off in a night-darkened forest to hunt the wolf that howls their names.

The girl without a family name lifts her labrum, feeling the rough paper of the explosive in her hand and the hilt of a knife in her other, and the cold power of black nerve within. Her toes dig into the soil, and she grins as her heart, gently, beings to pulse faster and faster.