Lostya Huggins felt strength trickle back into her limbs and chose to spend the first measure of it on her eyelids. Forcing them open, she surveyed the chaos before her through a haze of pain. "It's over. All over," she whispered, as nearly every soldier in her blurred vision wore Cynthian colors.

  "Sir! There's a woman here!" She managed a thin, bloodless smile, recognizing that this time, truly, the end had come. Rough hands seized her arms and yanked her upright. Before she could steady herself, a stinging blow cracked across her left cheek.

  "Comfortable, lady?" Though her gaze hadn't yet found his face, she knew it was the same Cynthian officer from inside the barrier. "Too comfortable to speak, perhaps?" Another slap scorched her right cheek. "Or have I addressed you improperly? What shall I call you? Something grander than camp whore?" He struck her several more times in quick succession.

  "My lord," a soldier ventured cautiously, "we're still at the front. Perhaps we should take her back before... proceeding with her humiliation..."

  "She destroyed our magical barrier!" He spat directly in her face; Lostya turned her head slightly. "Her and that little golden-haired bitch!" With a savage motion, he tore down her charred black undergarment, exposing her pale right breast and the half-healed wound above it to the biting air. "I want her death to be slow and agonizing." The officer snarled through clenched teeth. Emboldened by his commander, a soldier gathered his courage and spat directly onto the witch's wound. She couldn't suppress a groan of pain.

  The Cynthian officer seized her breast and squeezed brutally, his fingers digging into the wound. The witch cried out, her pain rewarded with a chorus of coarse laughter from the men encircling them.

  "My lord, let us return to camp first for our sport," the cautious soldier urged again. "This position remains unsafe."

  "Perhaps you're right. This battlefield dulls one's appetites." He released his grip. Lostya gasped for air, saliva glistening on her bloodied lips. "She's the one who threatened to blind you all, wasn't she?" he asked the men in leather and chainmail.

  "That's her, the very witch who promised to take our eyes," the leather-clad soldier grinned, his breath reeking of lust and unwashed teeth. In truth, it had been Ash Davan who had made that threat.

  "I'll carve those perfect little breasts from her chest," the mail-wearer declared, his excitement rising visibly—a suggestion that earned enthusiastic approval from his comrades.

  "We must treat noble sorceresses with all due courtesy," the officer reprimanded him sardonically. "As they have treated us, so shall we repay them. Tonight, I want to see your manhoods shoved into her eye sockets." He twisted his fist in her tangled black hair, wrenching her head upward. "One for each eye—everyone will have their turn." The surrounding cheers intensified.

  "Should we gouge the eyes out first, or—"

  "Leave the eyeballs in place, of course!" The officer erupted into maniacal laughter, whipping the surrounding frenzy to greater heights. Lostya Huggins understood every word; they deliberately spoke Common Tongue to ensure her comprehension of their planned degradations. She, too, laughed—softly, bitterly at herself: powerless, resigned to her fate.

  "Gods above, she's laughing," the officer said, shaking her head by the hair. "The bitch is actually laughing. It's unsettling, isn't it?" The black-haired sorceress forced her eyes wide open, determined to memorize every detail of what would be her final hours—especially these cruel, twisted men. She would remember their faces perfectly, and if not as a vengeful wraith, then she would curse them eternally in Oris's hell.

  The raucous laughter ceased with unnatural abruptness. The witch realized her curse had manifested with unexpected swiftness. The officer fell first—an arrow protruded from the back of his neck, dropping him before he could even scream. Lostya Huggins collapsed with him, then heard the chaos erupt: terrified shrieks, the clash of steel, and the frantic whinnying of war-horses.

  (I know that sound... the sound of that horse.) Her fingers dug into the earth, clawing furrows in the dirt, the grit packing under her nails. (Or maybe I'm just seeing things before the end.) She shoved the officer's corpse away and struggled to rise. Black destriers formed a protective circle around her, and the Cynthian infantry no longer posed any threat—one soldier to her right had been transformed into a grotesque pincushion of arrows. "Provide cover for the Tenth Legion," commanded a knight whose voice resonated with familiar tones. "I'll escort her back myself."

  She found herself lifted onto a saddle with surprising gentleness and speed. The knight had gathered her from behind, denying her a glimpse of his face. Yet she knew him with absolute certainty; even the sensation of sharing a mount felt achingly familiar, though this time she sat before him. "Ivan Northes," she said, her voice roughened by abuse. "You came for me."

  Ivan Northes guided his midnight destrier carefully around the worst of the fighting, maintaining a pace that wouldn't further harm the woman in his arms. "Yes. I came." With practiced ease, he nocked an arrow and dispatched a Cynthian rider who ventured too close.

  "I never imagined you would," she murmured, each word measured and faint. "I never thought to find you here."

  "Save your strength. That wound on your chest hasn't healed."

  "Perhaps it struck deeper than that. My heart. You wounded it when you refused me in Crivi, you know. You left so quickly, but we could have had more time there. Time for so many things. Like spending an entire day in bed, for instance."

  "...The heart is located on the left side, my lady."

  She gave a pained laugh that clearly cost her. "Still wooden as ever. Not a trace of humor in you."

  The Grey Knight fell silent. They had escaped the most intense area of combat; Ivan slowed his mount to a gentler pace. "I truly believed my end had come," she confessed softly.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Yet here you are, still among the living."

  "I once heard a remarkable saying," she said with a dreamlike, almost intoxicated cadence. "'When the rope is around your neck and they ask for your last words, tell the hangman you want a drink of water. Because who the hell knows what can happen in the time it takes to fetch it?'" She tilted her head back with a quiet laugh, her ebony hair brushing against Ivan Northes's cheek. "Only today have I truly comprehended its meaning. The next moment remains forever unknowable. Even the prophetic elven sages cannot divine it with certainty—especially when one's existence hangs by the thinnest thread." She continued, seemingly oblivious to her pain: "What awaits us in the next heartbeat, Ivan Northes? Perhaps a knight will emerge from the melee and strike us down, or an archer concealed among ruins will find his mark. Or possibly we'll reach the safety of camp and never again be parted. Or perhaps—" Ivan Northes silenced her speculation.

  He kissed her.

  "Kiss" hardly captured it; their awkward angle allowed him only half her mouth—yet it sufficed. Lostya Huggins responded with unexpected fervor. She bit at his lips, heedless that her own split further; warm blood mingled between them, filling both their mouths with iron tang. Lips pressed and retreated, teeth grazed tender flesh, tongues tentatively explored; and it was only when the sorceress, flushed and breathless and with a shyness that surprised even herself, finally pulled away gasping for air, that the truth became clear: Ivan Northes, elite knight of the realm, could kiss with the same deadly precision he brought to the battlefield.

  "You've improved since our last encounter, knight," the black-haired sorceress remarked, wiping a mixture of blood and saliva from her lips. "You've finally mastered it—a kiss both passionate and dignified, ardent without descending into vulgarity."

  "You were my teacher," the knight admitted, slightly breathless himself. "And you, too, have grown more skilled, Lona."

  Lostya Huggins's eyes widened; for a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe. In her twenty-four years of existence, no man had ever addressed her by that intimate diminutive. "No man has ever called me that before."

  "Then I consider myself privileged to be the first."

  Knight and sorceress had reached territory controlled by their forces; relative safety enveloped them. After a prolonged silence, she appeared to accept his use of her nickname. "I speak in all sincerity," she said, pressing herself closer against him until her lips brushed his cheek. "Not even my father addressed me so."

  "I apologize."

  "No, don't. It isn't that he died prematurely—I never discovered his identity."

  "But..."

  "Huggins was my mother's name."

  "...She must have been a remarkable woman."

  "Indeed she was. I've always believed so."

  "As are you, Lona."

  She bristled slightly at his repetition. "I gave you leave to use it. I did not give you leave to wear it out."

  "Forgive me, Lona."

  She sighed, managing a faint smile. "My pendant is gone," she revealed after a lengthy pause. "It shattered when I breached that barrier."

  "Was it of great importance to you?"

  "Yes. My primary focus—the finest among all my magical implements."

  "I have absolute faith you'll craft another—superior to what was lost."

  "Naturally I shall, Ivan. But it abandoned me on the battlefield, at my moment of greatest terror. Just as Ash Davan, Julia, and Aurelia did."

  "You refer to the three sorceresses?"

  "Yes."

  "The situation was chaotic beyond measure. When I encountered them, they were frantic with fear, yet desperately searching for you."

  "Nevertheless, they departed."

  "I commanded them to leave, Lona. Arrows were cutting through the air mere inches from their faces. For their protection... no alternative existed." He feared her wrath at this admission.

  Unexpectedly, Lostya demonstrated profound understanding. "Who wouldn't experience terror in such circumstances? When surrounded by death's intimate dance, flight is merely human nature. I cannot condemn them for it. Yet fear still grips me, can you comprehend? What truly terrifies me is that everything I treasure, everything I love at my very core, vanishes when I need it most. I fear loss. I fear helplessness. I am an accomplished sorceress, a court mage of the Godma Empire. I've always told myself I should never be without recourse."

  "I'm grateful you can understand those women's actions. But reality..."

  "I know what reality is. What just happened to me, that was reality. It's the opposite of everything I forced myself to believe. Reality is watching everything you care about vanish, and being as helpless as any common woman. Reality is that I am limited. And that limit is far, far smaller than I ever wanted to believe."

  Camp attendants near the perimeter stared curiously at the knight and sorceress passing by. "Don't demand the impossible of yourself," he advised gently.

  "Will you also vanish, Ivan Northes?" she asked with sudden intensity. "Will you, too, abandon me?" He found himself without response.

  "Am I demanding the impossible of you?" she whispered.

  "I..." After careful deliberation, Ivan finally answered, "I cannot offer you any promises."

  "Because of your duties as a soldier?"

  "Yes."

  She lapsed into silence. The Grey Knight felt warmth and moisture against his left cheek—her silent tears. They had reached the encampment, yet Ivan deliberately avoided their logical destination—the infirmary. Instead, he allowed his destrier to wander aimlessly along quieter paths, stealing precious moments from the Triad's ordained timepiece.

  "Past, present, and future," the black-haired sorceress inhaled deeply before speaking again. "In which would you choose to linger, if such choice were granted?"

  This time, he answered without hesitation. "Any moment whatsoever—provided you share it with me."

  Lostya Huggins gazed up at him; tears trembling on her lashes made her violet eyes appear more luminous, more captivating than ever. "Must you return immediately to battle?"

  "By duty, yes. However, I've sustained an injury as well," he said, indicating his heart.

  Her tears transformed into genuine laughter—so innocent it ached to witness. "Then spare us both a brief interlude. For my sake—and for your wound." She placed her palm against his chest.

  Ivan appeared momentarily surprised, understanding her implication. "You require rest."

  "Don't allow me rest," she replied with mischievous intent. "Employ your full strength, every skill at your command. Honor your promise—complete what remained unfinished due to your pride and reluctance when last we met."

  "If memory serves, I made no such promise then, Lona."

  "I dwell neither in past nor future. I exist in the present—this very moment."

  He regarded her intently; she returned his gaze unflinchingly. "You made your promise mere moments ago. I possess no elven sage's gift of prophecy. I cannot divine what comes. But I can claim this singular instant. That represents the full extent of my power."

  "Very well. You have my word." Her smile radiated triumph.

  For the span of a precious hour, he drew from her sighs and gasps and perspiration, guiding her to ecstasy repeatedly. He honored his promise: denying her rest, anchoring her firmly in the incandescent present, inscribing himself indelibly into that moment. And she, in return, offered everything a woman could bestow—her most tender kisses, her warmest embraces, her complete self. The glistening thread that connected their lips as they parted was the delicate weave of her affection; and in the warm, welcoming sanctuary between her thighs, they found an eternity in a fleeting moment.