In the night, I crawl from the corner and drink water from the floor. I could walk outside and find some abandoned bowl or cup to fill with rainwater, but I don’t. It’s too much effort.

My energies are directed to the decision. It is the only decision left. It is a decision my intellect has abandoned and my emotions have discarded. It is left simply to my will. With a simple “Yes” or “No,” my life will be decided.

Will I return with Bron or will I not?

All my arguments are debris upon the ground. All my resolve and hatred is weak and pale. Because, despite everything, one truth persists.

I want to live. Why?

There is no answer. Because. I can go no deeper.

Because I want to live.

*     *     *

The rain passes sometime before morning. I am not washed clean. I am thin and transparent and incredibly heavy. The first light tinges the morning. My sleepless eyes gaze upon it. There is something in it my soul wants to echo, a brightness and lightness and clarity that I want to reflect onto me and clothe me and save me.

I am a little girl again, alone in the hospital, unalterably maimed. I have tried to pretend otherwise for years. I cannot escape it.

Bron will visit me today. He will ask the question. It’s the unanswerable question. It’s not even a question. It’s a command, but in his simple, insistent way, it becomes a question. It is not “Come with me.” It is “Will you allow me to come with you?”

I have always despised pity. If he would demand, I could fight. (I could have before; now, I don’t know.) But when he asks, what can I say? Will I admit to him that he is strong when I am weak?

Until recently, I could not admit to myself that I was weak.

In the early morning light, I imagine saying “Yes.” I think it is possible I will say “Yes.”

I will hate myself forever. I will be miserable. My soul will fester. But–it is possible I will say “Yes.”

But I may not.

I may, in fact, make it my goal to destroy him.

*     *     *

The day is exquisitely quiet. I hear a bird far off, twittering mindlessly.

My senses are heightened, my pulse excited. I lick my lips and rub my sweaty palms. He is coming. Soon, he will be here. My future will be decided one way or another. I will have a future–somehow.

A sound. I tense, listening. It is a pebble somewhere, a shoe scraping. It does not return. Though I wait, I hear nothing else. I release my held breath. It has happened a dozen times. My brain is foggy beneath the edge of anticipation. I wait.

There is something…something…it’s a shuffling beneath, like a change in atmosphere, like a pitch just beyond hearing. I am convinced it is something nearby, someone approaching. Bron is slow and steady, but he is not stealthy. Could Nyasha be creeping up? Are her small feet that silent?

I almost call out. But, surely, it is nothing. No one knows I am here–except Bron.

Silence like ice floats over the room, over the building. It is shifting, shifting….

It breaks in a moment of panic and din. I scream as the forms close in on me, shouting, grabbing me, dragging me up. I flail, or try to, but their hands are shackles. I am powerless, useless, a quivering mass of flesh.

I have stopped screaming, but I can hardly see or focus. “Did he do this?” I demand. “Did he?” Bron has decided to punish me for all I am. He has finally cracked and lashed out. I feel it. I know it.

They are trying to tell me something, but I growl and bare my teeth and try to bite the nearest one. They laugh. “Where is he?” I scream. “Show your face! Coward!”

They force me out of my corner, out of my building, into the street, and I obey, because they will lead me to him, to the only person I hate, to the only person I want to see, to the only person in all the world I truly know.

I retrace steps I don’t remember, following the once-dark path in the full light of day. In time, I return to the street where Malik and I walked; I pass the deteriorating library where I left Nyasha to die. Where is he? In my frantic state, I expect him to appear, and I don’t know whether I want him to condemn me, like a judge upon his bench, or rescue me in a flurry of fists and blood.

They lead me onward, pass a blackened heap of marble, irretrievably destroyed, a mountain of broken grandeur. Even I can tell this used to be the palace. It is gone, and there is no sign it will be rebuilt.

The flags I saw before, when Bron and Nyasha were still with me, are ahead, towering over a squat dark building sitting like an ancient toad. Soldiers move in and out from it with purpose and speed in every direction.

Into this dark remnant of Thyrion they lead me, through corridors shimmering in reconstructive sheen, and I admit to myself, finally, that Bron is not coming for me. That he has not sent for me. That I am out of his hands and in someone else’s.

“Why am I here?” I demand. They look at me, these rough men with square faces and dark eyes. They do not answer.

One goes and he returns. “Bring her. He’ll see her.”

The one who restrains me pushes me forward. I am weak, weaker than I want to admit, and without his firm grip, I may well fall to my knees.

The room is sparsely furnished, neatly organized, and he sits at a desk, looking over some papers as I enter. I know who this is. I have seen his picture. I have heard his description.

His lips twitch as he looks up. It is not quite a smile.

“Leave us,” he says to the guards. They release me. I lock my knee and stay upright. There are black spots for a moment, but they pass.

“You know who I am, of course?” he says. He remains seated, examining me with his hard, calculating eyes. They are intelligent eyes, but with a sharpness rarely seen in Jalseion.

“Yes.”

“Did you kill Malik Drage?”

“Is that what this is about?’

“He was a fine soldier. He delivered me your limbs, at great risk to his life. He’s the only one who survived. That’s something to be proud of in these times. If you survived the Cataclysm, you’ve won the lottery. Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

“He was a trained soldier. How?” He emphasizes the next: “With magic?”

“Magic is gone.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” But a quiver of hope vibrates within me. “The wells are empty.”

“Here and everywhere. None of my scouts have found a drop of it anywhere.” He leans back, folds his arms. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m surprised to find you here in Thyrion. When I sent my men to track down Malik’s killer, it was as much for their morale as to continue to exert a sense of justice in this rebellious city. I never expected they would find you. But here you are. Why could you not have come earlier?”

“You didn’t ask nicely.”

“Do you know, I think it possible magic might still be here if you had come the first time I sent for you.”

My leg will not hold. Not any longer. And I don’t care. I let it fail. I collapse to the ground. I am breathing heavily. I have been since I entered, from the long, forced march. “You lie.”

He shrugs. “Believe what you want. Jalseion wasn’t the only city interested in how far one could push magic’s abilities. Though I do wish you had come earlier. What might have been prevented?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

But the wells died to punish me. That is the irrational truth. It is my fault. Somehow, it is my fault.

He stands and walks around the table. He kneels beside me, and there is a fire in his eyes. “I have lost so, so much because of you. You can’t begin to understand what might have been. Project: Godfire could have changed–everything.” He stands. “But everything has changed. The world is shattered. And I have to put it back together.” He leans against his desk. “You look horrible.”

“I’ve been better.”

“You said something wrong before. You said magic was gone. But it’s not.”

I straighten my back and meet his eyes. “It is. I would feel it otherwise. I know it’s gone.”

“The world’s changed. Magic’s changed.”

I think of Bron, suddenly, of how he found that campsite, how he found that house, how he found me….

“Do you believe in fate, Calea? In the blessing of Elthor? I don’t give it much thought, myself, but twice, I have come to you. And now here we are, face to face at last. Magic’s changed, Calea, but if anyone in the world can work out its form, it’s you. Third request. It’s your last chance, and a gracious one at that. Do you want to help me?”

I look up at Dracon, Lord of Thyrion. He holds out his hand, his open hand. I have escaped Nyasha. I have rid myself of Bron. I have found magic again.

I take it. He lifts me up.

“We’ll get you settled. Tomorrow, I’ll fill you in on what I know. You’ll have access to anything you want, as long as you serve me and me alone. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

The answer had been meant for Bron, but I say it. It is the only thing I can say.

He summons the soldiers, gives them orders, and they lead me elsewhere, though halls I do not know, past men in uniform who barely look at me, into a barren room that must now be mine.

The soldiers leave me, and I stand in my new quarters.

I sit on the edge of a chair. My legs are still weak.

For some reason, I am crying. Tears are streaming down my face. One last time.

It goes on long enough. I force the tears to stop. I press down the emotion and cram it into its corner. I am done. There is no more time for such things, no more reason for such things.

The room is small, with a cot and a small window and a dresser in the corner. The stale air moves stiffly as I walk to the bed. I sit there, waiting for something.

The door is open, just a hair.

I walk to it, too excitedly, and peer out. No one is there.

He is not there.

It doesn’t matter. I live. I’ve found a way to live. I never needed him. I’d almost forgotten that.

I turn away and close the door.

(The End)

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