The farmland was interminable. Fields of wheat rolled infinitely to either horizon. Eris found herself on the surface of the sun; it was yellow because the creatures of the Aether had cultivated it. There was no other explanation. Were it not for the blue of the sky her eyes would have become permanently scarred with a golden tint. Not unfitting, but not pleasurable.

They traipsed through crops and across irrigation ditches. At times they passed over roads, but Eris grew paranoid that Khelidon might send men after them. Their course of flight would be obvious. They could not stay in the city. They had no funds to charter a ship. They were stuck traveling on foot. If he wanted to find them, he could. And why wouldn’t he?

The whole of the first day was spent walking. They were both so exhausted that the bare thought required to put one foot before the other occupied most of their mental capacity. That night they slept beside each other on the banks of a rocky stream, shaded from the moon by the fingers of a dying tree from which wept yellowed, rotting leaves.

Eris awoke to Aletheia’s tears. And for a brief, blissful moment, everything was as it was supposed to be. The girl was in the depths of her normal sorrow. Eris was lazing. Rook was nearby, reading from his book of poems, and they were back in Rytus, or Telmos, camping the early morning away, waiting for first dawn before they rose. This was a morning like any other. And like any other, she closed her eyes to return to sleep.

But then she remembered. She remembered and her eyelids tightened. The horrible scene came flooding back to her. The evil of the last two days and nights. The loss of her entire life.

And the presence of Rook that still haunted her.

She was past tears. For the first time since the Kynigos’ arrival she felt herself. The crying, slobbering woman was gone. Now Eris, cold and calculating, returned, and she saw everything rationally.

She sat upright. Her back against a tree. She glanced about their camp, at the running stream nearby, and then at Aletheia in her bedroll. She had fallen back asleep. In the dark receding moonlight she checked her arms for hives and rashes: the former were gone, the latter receding. Her stomach pain persisted, but she felt far better than she had. It was the sword’s doing. It had healed her. Restored her. Used the life of two others to patch over her own.

Her Essence remained drained. And she would still be sick for quite some time. But she would survive, and better than normal after spellsickness. That was some blessing.

A wave of nausea assaulted her throat. She threw back her head. She was determined not to throw up, and while the urge grew and grew, her resolution did not wane, until even as the sensation was so strong she felt as though she had no choice, but still she held herself—and then it passed.

A breath. She put her hands on her pained stomach.

Some illnesses would last longer than others.

In the time that followed she thought deeply. She replayed Rook’s final moments in her memory again and again. She considered what she might have possibly done differently. She wondered how she might have kept him from leaving her. And when no answers came, with her thinking unclouded by emotion, she made up her mind.

Rook received the martyr’s death he wanted. He received it fighting for nothing. He threw himself away, wasting a long, prosperous existence as Duke of Korakos, robbing Aletheia of his company, and terminating his love with Eris—and he did it against her command. He had gotten himself killed, because he was a fool, and a romantic, and a man, and in so sacrificing himself, he disregarded the pain and suffering and now, even, death that might come to his closest companions as a result. For two years he had seduced her with his infinite virility and impossible good lucks and done everything he could to domesticate her, only to incinerate it all in an instant.

Yes. She hated him. This was not the reactionary impulse of a woman who had lost her lover, but a calculated realization in the early hours of dawn. She had always hated him. What she loved about Rook was his musculature. His tongue. His arms and legs. The way he looked, and the way he smelled, and the way he could make her feel with his touch. But that was nothing more than biology. Now it meant nothing. It was returned to dust. All she was left with instead was the memory of who he was as a man, and as a man…she hated him.

Immune to sense. Immune to reason. Stupid like a beast of burden. Sentimental. Unrelenting in his campaigns of harassment against her. Possessed of infinite idiocies. The more she thought on it, the angrier she became. The more her hatred grew. The more she knew only loathing. She had never loved him at all. She had only been infatuated. It had taken his death for her to realize that. How could she love a man so willing to do—what he had done? To leave her as he had? To abandon her with Aletheia? She saw that now, and there was an easy test to know it to be true: could she have loved him if he had been ugly? Would she have ever bothered if he had been shorter than her, or skinnier, or thin like Robur, or if his manhood had been small and withered? Of course not. She would have ignored him, as she ignored so many other men—and his juvenile character, his aspiration heroism, would have been only a detriment to her desire to remain in his company.

There was nothing to cloud her mind now. She had been a slave to biology. That was why she gave in. No longer. Now her mind was clear. Now she could say it clearly. She found Rook Korakos irresistible, but as a man, she hated him.

Her stomach churned. She held it with her hands, and she gazed downward at herself. She still wore nothing more than a thin gown. But it was not her stomach. She knew her own body well, and already, now her mind was clear, she knew this was no longer her body. A stranger might not notice, but the flatness of her belly was replaced by a gentle bump—the shape of the parasite within. Her breasts were larger, too—she had noticed that much earlier, but she often gained and lost weight between expeditions, and she was only nineteen and her body often still changed, and so she hadn’t had the wisdom to grow suspicious.

It was not noticeable yet, but soon enough the parasite Rook had implanted within her would swell larger, and it would be visible to all. Everyone who saw her would not think, ‘There is the most beautiful woman I have ever beheld;’ but instead, ‘There proceeds a cow.’ She shuddered, then again, at the thought. She would become fat. Her breasts would sag. She would be ugly—the worst fate imaginable—and then a hideous, squealing creature would crawl its way out of her…

That was why she hated him most of all. The other reasons were reason enough, but this was more than she could forgive. She knew, somehow, deep in her soul, that this always was his plan. He knew she did not want children, so he used her for his breeding stock without her consent, impregnating her intentionally, covertly, so he could have his heir and have his family. Perhaps he pranced off to his death knowing her fate already, knowing that his family line would be continued.

It was an evil thing for him to do. She had been so taken with him. So obsessed. So infatuated. She was so much younger than him, too—why had he lain with her, with so little heed for the consequences? Surely he knew what would happen? Surely it occurred to him, even when Eris was too young and stupid to think clearly?

She could not believe otherwise. Yet another reason to hate him. He used her as a spawning pool. The worst violation she could imagine. To express her contempt with ‘hatred’ was utterly insufficient. She loathed and reviled him. She was happy he was dead. She was glad he was gone. Had she discovered her pregnancy while he lived, both he and the parasite he thrust onto her would have been killed in recompense.

Well. He was dead. But his parasitic spawn was not, not yet. He wanted his line continued? She would be happy, she would revel in the opportunity, to cut it short. There would be no son of Rook Korakos. That was her solemn vow. The moment her Essence was restored, she would kill it.

Not a vow made in a fit of emotion. A reasoned, sensible, convicted declaration. She only needed more time to rest.

They laid all their things out on rocks by the creek. A full inventory of four years’ worth of assorted items. In weapons they possessed:

Rook’s sword Aletheia’s sword, taken from Lukon Eris’ staff, taken from Antigone The arcane focus Astera’s elven bow (with quiver) Two mundane daggers

Magical miscellanea included:

The Lion’s Roar Band The Mood Ring (which was usually red, had been blue last night, and was now red once again) Rook’s compass Aletheia’s locket The Spellward gauntlet

Aletheia had her armor, but Eris possessed nothing of the sort. Finally, among their other items:

The mirror, given to her by Rook Eris’ singular gilt armlet Guinevere’s druidic necklace Several pairs of earrings between both of them Aletheia’s tiara

Many more pieces of jewelry had been lost in their escape. Only these survived the rushed flight from Korakos. They had no cash whatsoever between them.

Eris sighed. “There is no choice. We must sell your tiara.”

Aletheia hesitated, then turned to her to Eris with an appalled expression. “What?”

“We will not be able to eat otherwise.”

“Why not your necklace?”

Eris grabbed Guinevere’s necklace. She still wore it every day. “That is an item of personal significance.”

Aletheia grabbed the tiara. “So is this.”

Eris grimaced. “Fine. Then we sell your earrings.”

“Why don’t we sell yours?”

“Because I—” She sputtered, searching for an answer that was more than an insult, but failing to find one, replied only, “Because these are not baubles stolen from passersby or bought in shops. They are ancient artifacts.”

“Mine are ancient artifacts. We found this in Arqa’s vault.” She clutched the tiara close to her heart.

Eris demonstrated her armlet. “This was found in a vault of the Old Kingdom. In Ewsos.”

She surveyed their things. Then she grabbed Rook’s mirror. “This isn’t from the Old Kingdom.”

Eris felt her heart sink. She hated Rook. She wanted nothing to do with him. She wanted to destroy every trace of his existence in her life. But…that mirror…was very beautiful. And she looked very beautiful in it. That was all.

“Give that back to me,” she growled.

“It would be worth a lot.”

“Give it back now!”

“We could eat for a month—”

“If you do not give it back, I swear I will turn your intestines into water—”

Aletheia smiled. She kept it away from Eris for a moment further, but eventually tossed it back to her. She caught it in a state of panic—the fear that it might hit the ground and break overwhelmed her, and she cradled it in her arms like a precious spellbook of ancient, crumbling paper.

“I was just joking,” she said. “I know it—” Then she looked very sad. She wiped a tear from her eyes. “I know he gave it to you.”

“That—is not why I want to keep it. I…it is merely too valuable to pawn in a village. That is all. If we cannot agree on anything—let it be the earrings. We may sell them all. They are not overvaluable. I have gathered mine over the course of many years, but they are nothing I cannot bear to be parted with.”

The girl nodded to this, acquiescing. “What if they come looking for us?”

“We will need to move under cover of illusion. I taught you Arcane Semblance for this purpose.”

She nodded again. “Ok. I’ll…disguise myself and sell these things. Then we can find an inn and rest. Are you—okay here alone?”

Eris glared at her. “Why would I not be ‘okay’ here?”

Aletheia shrugged innocently. “It’s just…I thought…”

“Do not think I am reduced to the state of some miserable weakling simply because—of this ailment that has befallen me. I am still myself. If I had magic, I would follow you; but since I do not, ‘tis better I stay behind. We are less likely to be recognized individually.”

She nodded. “Okay. I’ll be back soon.”

So Aletheia departed with their earrings. Eris was left alone to rest by the tree. And it wasn’t sadness, the blue on her ring was wrong, when an hour later all she could do to refrain from crying was remind herself that she hated Rook and did not miss him. She did not miss him. It was merely the pain from her stomach. That was it. That was all that compelled her to tears.

Later that day they approached a village far off the path. Aletheia disguised them as sisters, swapping their hair colors and giving them both brown eyes, and they took up in the local inn. Food there was expensive, and the carnivorous diet Eris had grown so accustomed to unheard of, but what they could afford she ate ravenously. Then they rested. They stayed together in the same room.

A day. Eris felt better. Another, better still. On the third she took a breath of mana from the air and exhaled it into frost—and even drained, her Essence was beginning to recover. She had a small amount of magic at her command. As for spellsickness, it faded entirely within the week.

That was how she found herself sitting upright in their bed while Aletheia was asleep. Nausea had possessed her, but as before she forced it away.

The time had come. She was drained, but not too drained for the task set out for her. She had killed many men with magic before. It was easy. To kill a fetus would be trivial. All she needed to do was reach out to its soul in her womb and stop its heart.

So she did. She closed her eyes and felt out the creatures in the room around her. Aletheia. Herself. A mouse in the wall. And then the imitation of her ‘lover’—the man who had violated her, the echo of his spirit. It dwelled within her body. She shuddered to sense it there, but with her mind she delved to where she could grasp hold of it easily.

She grabbed it. This thing that smelled and tasted like Rook, like Rook and herself combined into one: she took it, and she strangled it. She felt its soul growing weaker and weaker within her. She watched the light of its consciousness go out. She throttled it until there was nothing left. Until…

She let go. She gasped. A swell of life returned to the parasite; its heartbeat picked back up. She collapsed down to the bed, swearing. She suffocated herself in the straw pillow.

This parasite. This ‘child.’ It was all that remained of Rook. Could she really snuff out the life, the son he had so desperately wanted with her? With every brush of her Essence against its tiny, impossibly tiny body, she felt not just him, but herself—it was the product of all their time together. So clearly. And some day, she knew, it would be alive. Could she really kill it now?

Yes. She could. She tried again. She hated him, and she would punish him this way: she would have revenge on him for leaving her, and she would have it against their son. She reached out and again smothered the life within her. She strangulated it within her womb. She choked it until there was no light left, until that smell of Rook was gone—

But again she let go, and again its heartbeat returned.

The smell of Rook gone. It had been with her all this time, even since his death, and for the first time she truly tasted what it would be like to be rid of it. She tasted what it would be like to be without him. And she burst into tears.

Her ring flickered deep violet. All her anger dispelled. Guilt and regret—two feelings Eris did not know often—washed over her in tidal waves.

She did not hate Rook. She did not want revenge. She wanted to be with him more than anything in the world. All his heroism and idiocy and sentimentality—that was what she loved. It had been mere days without him, but just knowing he would never return drove her mad. She missed him more than she would miss water over the same time. She did not know how she would live without him. She did not know how she would live without his body, without his tongue, without his wit, and without his soul with her.

And she did hate him for impregnating her. She loathed that he did this to her, that this was the twist her story had to take. She did not want a child. Not even his. But as she cried, she realized she could not stand to kill their son, for it was a son—she had seen it clearly in the mirror, and it was not just his, but theirs. The only fate worse than a life without Rook seemed, to her, to be a life without some trace of him.

And so her hatred swelled even as sorrow exploded through her heart, even as rage subsided and tears flooded her features. Because he gave her no choice. She loved him. And if he had lived, she could have killed the creature in her womb. It would have been easy. But now she couldn’t. Now, because he was dead and there was nothing left of him except what was in her, she had been robbed of all her agency, and she would have to spare the child. She would have to carry it to term. The child had to live.

She didn’t know what would come next. She did not want to raise an infant. Perhaps it could be given to Aletheia, or Jason, or left someplace safe where she would never need see it again. She could not see herself mothering it, in any world. It was the worst fate she could imagine. Anything else would be better. Death would be better. But if she couldn’t kill it, then she had to give birth to it—and no son of Rook would be discarded to the wolves once out of the womb. She loved him far too much to treat a child of his like that.