The elf was almost on her knees by the time she made it back to the room where Chukshene lay snoring, head pillowed on his grimoire.
She felt a brief spark of irritation on seeing him. But recognised the kind of exhaustion that had driven him far beyond a deep sleep and into something which was more akin to a coma.
She figured to let him sleep.
Shouldering the old door closed, she crawled toward the corner closest to the warlock.
The elf stifled a low animal sob of pain in the back of her throat as her knees buckled and gave out under her. She slid down the wall and slumped.
The hole in her shoulder was an angry hive of hot rushing sensations extending down her arm. As though boiling worms squirrelled through her flesh. Her swollen cheek added an extra dose of punishment she didn't think she needed.
But which she endured simply because she had no choice.
Tugging a ragged strip of cloth from one of her many pouches, the elf dropped the shoulder of her jacket to reveal her damaged skin.
Wincing, she reached behind her shoulder to dab the leaking wound caused by Torak's hook. Held it there for a moment while it soaked blood, then gently leaned back to press the rag between her open flesh and the wall.
Figured she'd use the ancient furniture in the room to set a fire as soon as she could pass through the vicious curtain of agony to a point where her nerves had swollen into numb acceptance.
At that point, she hoped she'd be able to move. Slowly, maybe, but without feeling like the pain was about to strip her guts clean of meat.
She sighed as she reached up to touch her fingers against the old scar on her cheek. The fresh bruising below appeared to be just that. Bruises.
She'd feared Torak's punch had cracked her nose, which would have meant a long delay in healing. And she wasn't sure her body could take much more.
She'd gotten lucky, the elf thought. If not for the sudden distraction given by the quaking ground, she reckoned she'd be strung up on Torak's cursed hooks and screaming as he peeled the skin back from her body like he'd promised to do.
With a shudder, the elf accepted she'd come too close to death.
A few years ago, she'd never have made that mistake. Never have walked into an obvious trap. The half-closed door. The relatively clean floor in a dusty old ruin.
The muted cough as bait.
It had been a stupid decision brought about through impatience and desperation.
She wanted to kill Raste so bad she could taste it not just in her mouth, but in the marrow of her bones. And she was experienced enough in the art of hunting prey to know that impatience and desperation only got you killed.
She had to hold on. Had to stay alive long enough to fill his heart with her blade.
For now, though, she sat motionless as she waited for the wound to calm its savage throbbing. How much time passed, she couldn't say. There was nothing to measure it by but the uncertain threading of her pulse as she listened to the warlock's sawing breath.
Her gaze travelled the shadows creeping across the dusty stone floor as she tried to drag her chaotic thoughts into something coherent.
After the explosion of violence and the resulting loss of blood, the elf's coffee-coloured skin was pale to the point of ghostly. But in her violet eyes there was a glint which hinted at an untapped source of strength left hidden in her lean frame.
That strength hadn't always been there.
Her first years scrounging on the streets of Lostlight were years of constant fear and exhaustion.
She'd wandered like a mindless undead corpse for much of it.
But she learnt her lessons. She learned to be ruthless. And found once that door had been opened, it could never be closed.
That ruthlessness had saved her life many times before tonight.
The elf rubbed at her eyes, scrubbing away the grisly echo of bloodshed and wiped the sweat and grime from her face with the back of her fist. She gave no more thought to the lives she'd so recently taken.
Instead managed to channel her thoughts back to the wound in her shoulder. It beat angrily at her flesh and bone.
Reached back to remove the makeshift bandage which had been soaking the blood.
And frowned.
There wasn't enough blood.
Dropping the wad, she touched her fingers to the wound. It didn't feel as bad as she'd thought. Which was strange in itself, because the pain had been so severe it'd almost crippled her as she'd descended the stairs.
She explored the edges of the narrow tear in her flesh. Wetness leaked, but not as much as she expected.
Still, bruises surrounded it. And those bruises had swollen tight up against bone. Her skin felt stretched.
She remembered the last time she'd taken such a bruising to her back. A fight with an ork. Talek had used some kind of unguent on it for days until the bruising faded.
His strong hands had massaged the muscles of her shoulder.
Neck. Her back.
Pressing the places between the bones of her spine.
Squeezing her eyes shut, the elf felt a shudder of grief at thought of her husband and realised something so beautiful in its simplicity.
That she missed him.
Missed the genuine warmth of his smile.
His solemn-spoken advice.
She could use his advice right now.
"Ah, Talek," she whispered. Her voice rasped gently through the shadows. "I wish you were here."
Tears bubbled like acid in the corner of her eyes. With an angry grunt, she shook her head.
He was dead.
Gone.
A memory.
A ghost bound in ethereal chains within her head and heart.
"Nysta?" the warlock yawned, lifting his head. "Everything okay?"
His voice made her jump, though he didn't notice. It was only then that she realised the light in the room had slowly increased, infiltrating the shadows as dawn chased the night away.
How long had she been sitting there? It felt like only a few minutes. But it had been hours.
Had she slept? She didn't think so. Yet, she didn't feel as tired as she should.
She shook her head again, keeping her voice flat and unemotional. "Fine."
"You didn't sleep?" His eyes were bright, and he looked ready to attack the day with a level of positivity she was already sure was going to annoy her.
"How's anyone supposed to sleep around you, 'lock? You snore loud enough to scare ogres away."
"Seriously? I snore? That's new. Huh. You want anything to eat?" The warlock undid the straps on his pack and shoved his hand into the depths. "Think I've got a few things in here. Drink? I've got a little water. Maybe. Shit. What's this? Well, I don't know what it is. It's a bit fucked up. Looks like applecake. Yeah. That's what it is. Smells okay. Just wipe the mould off. It'll be fine."
"Thought you ran out of food ages ago." She raised an eyebrow. Mentally added this new information to a growing list of the warlock's lies. "That's what you told me, remember?"
"Yeah? Well. Never travel without food, that's my motto. A man needs to eat. I thought if I told you I didn't have anything, you wouldn't try to steal it. Let's face it, Nysta. You don't look the most honest sort of woman. In fact, I'd say my first impression was you looked like a stone cold killer wanting to cut my throat just to rob me of my buttons." He passed the applecake and a small canteen. Tapped a finger to his robe after she accepted his offer of food. "And I like these buttons. In truth, I've got a little more food. But not enough to keep us going for too many more days. Let's just say, it'd be good if Grimwood Creek's got a store."
"If not, you could always find a table and set up your own stall."
"Me?" He shot her an amused look. "I really don't think I'd be a good at selling."
"I don't know, 'lock," she said, taking a bite of the applecake. It was stale, but still sweet. A bit too sweet. "I reckon you'd be pretty good at it."
He didn't look convinced. "Really?"
"Sure," she growled. "With all the lies you tell, you could run a super market."
***
Thank you for reading, if you still are.