His hands trembled, holding tightly her frame. She kept yelling fiercely, hitting the reigns to compel her horse to go faster.

Nerys had not sent any messengers, she did not write back at all. Too many days had passed. And so, he could not blame his worry on paranoia, not anymore.

Lyssa looked over her shoulder for a moment, noticing how Bastian stared at the distance, lost in a daze. He had not slept in days, waiting for a letter that never arrived. It took her time to acknowledge her own worry, the one she always felt but hid.

Bastian had sent a scout recently, alarmed by the lack of communication, which lasted for too long. The messenger came back empty-handed; there were no letters, no verbal briefings from her squad. The only thing that the man could report was what he saw: an empty fort.

At first, Bastian thought he heard wrong. But the scout’s words soon stabbed into him, settling clearly in his mind. He did not need to beg Lyssa to take him along; she had a small group of horsemen ready in a matter of minutes, as soon as dread gripped her.

Both feared as much, for her. They ignored all orders, advised not to venture into a search. It was obvious what had happened. Her mentor tried to make her stay, as there was only one possible reason for Nerys not to come back.

Lyssa did not listen to anyone but herself, sharing Bastian’s dismay. And so, Sergius had followed, unable to stop her. He was following them closely on his own horse, slightly behind the few men she had grouped. He could see the fear in their eyes. It was the same they hinted the night he found them.

Lyssa kept a fast speed, not stopping to sleep, nor rest. She could only go ahead, feeling the fearful grasp of Bastian’s arms. Nerys could not be dead. There had to be a reason for her silence and apparent loss. The scout had to be wrong in his report.

That was what they wished. But when they finally gazed upon the crag and fort, there was no mistaking the signs. There was no light past the gate, no hint of torches or watery traps, which were what she always used to secure the perimeter.

Lyssa got down from the horse, Bastian following fast. All men had their swords ready to go in, but the two ventured first. Her hands were glowing slightly, and he stayed close behind her, eyeing every blind spot.

As they advanced through the ruins, they searched every corner, every chamber… and soon saw the blood on the door. Bastian paled, for it was slightly open, its hinges broken. Lyssa did not falter, not even if there was a corpse by the pillars that preceded it. She kept striding towards the chamber, while he could only freeze and stare.

The corpse was familiar, but only because of the armor it wore. There were claw marks all over, making it impossible to recognize the face; it was a bloody mess. The symbol painted on the shoulder plate revealed this was one of Nerys’ soldiers. She had always depicted her squad with the drawing of a flame, overlaying the rebel emblem, as customary.

A gag escaped him, never used to this, the sight of a slaughter. Even if the soldier’s face was unrecognizable, the way in which the body was sprawled hinted that their last moments had been spent trying to evade something, for dear life. This was why he never fought in the frontline like them. He had enough with the memory of that one night, when he first came to know these monsters lurked.

The fear that Nerys had suffered such a fate would keep him awake for many nights, and ensure nightmares would plague him forever. Worst of all, he knew Lyssa felt exactly like him, even if she never hinted her plight.

Lyssa roamed now in the decrepit courtroom. Her steps had slowed down, allowing her to glance all around her carefully. Her gaze was haunted, dazed. There were many shadows between the debris. And as much as she wanted to deny it, it was obvious they were human corpses. Blood was all over the floor. There were no vampires now, but they had been there, feeding.

She fell to her knees between it all, the darkness concealing the tears that began to pour from her ochre eyes. A trembling whimper escaped her as she reached for the sword on the ground. It was a trusty weapon, and Nerys never parted from it.

Lyssa trembled, unable to pay mind to Sergius, who now stood behind her. He looked down in impotence, having seen this many times in his life. While they grieved, Bastian had roamed blindly, climbing decayed stairs near the door. His dragged steps soon took him to the tall tribune. His grey eyes shed tears when she finally let out a loud cry, a defeated call, which Nerys would not answer.

Bastian just stood there, looking down. He could see Lyssa tremble between the debris down below… and Nerys blood at his feet. There was a ripped piece of leather from her armor, which surely had been clawed off.

He could only let his own tears mix with the blood, knowing that Nerys came here because of him. That realization made him cover his eyes with his shaky hands, his teeth showing in an anguished grimace. Guilt sunk into his mind, never to leave.