Dark — that’s what it was. There was no moon, there were no stars, there were no torches or bonfires, there weren’t even any damn fireflies. It was completely dark. Which, of course, was exactly what Scarlet had in mind.

It was her turn to stand watch, while Gell and Thierry slept. She thought it was more than a bit ridiculous to have her standing watch at all, since the primary thing she was watching for was a wizard, and she was the only member of the party who wasn’t able to sense magic, but it was her watch nonetheless. Her keen hearing would be useful, she figured wryly, should Blackwell decide to walk at them or maybe attack on a bicycle instead of just using some of the old black magic.

Not that it much mattered to her mind, since she wasn’t particularly focused on watching regardless. She had a job to do, and she’d been putting it off for entirely too long; her vehement denials notwithstanding, she knew the old wizard had been right, and she hated it. She hated the weakness that had persuaded her from carrying out her mission, hated the sentimentality, hated the foolishness. She thought back to her sisters — three of them, all dead by the Puritan’s hand!

They, like her, were the Hand of the creator. She would succeed where they had failed, she told herself. She was the strongest of them, the quickest, the smartest. So she believed. She was determined that this would be the night — she would avenge her sisters and recover the Word, as was her sacred charge.

And so she meditated, clearing her mind of interfering emotion, synchronising her thoughts and her movements, sublimating all her rage, all her frustration, all her… no, there was nothing else. She would take the unwanted feelings and put them to more productive use, drawing out her true power, honing the Art into a cloak, into a shield, and into a sword.

At last, her meditation complete, her mind and body now still, she rose from her perch on a high tree limb and somersaulted gracefully down to the forest floor, landing without a sound. The cloak saw to that. As long as she maintained her focus, she could not be seen, could not be heard, could not be felt. Slowly, undetectably, she crept her way through the trees, hearing her prey out; off to her left, she could detect the unmistakable, thin, raspy breathing distinctive of the old wizard; he was not her target, but he worried her nonetheless, as she knew that, with the proper spellcraft, he could penetrate her defenses with ease. So she understood fully the importance of not being detected — absolute silence, eliminate the target, and vanish. By the time the mage knew what had happened, it would be far too late.

Some distance ahead, though the trees, she perceived a deep, garrulous snoring that she recognised well — that was Gell, fool that he was, sleeping heedlessly under the watchful eye of what he should well know is his most dangerous enemy. Scarlet experienced a brief flash of anger at this thought; he didn’t even seem to take her seriously! Well, he would never even have the opportunity to learn from his mistake, she vowed, and then, with some difficulty, gathered the undesired emotion and repressed it, returning to her state of perfect reason.

As she crept upon the sleeping Puritan, leaves underfoot not rustling even the smallest amount, she slowly, silently drew the dagger from its sheath, and, with a momentary application of her will, bestowed upon it the art of slaying. The holy slayer-knife pulsed with a dull redness that was invisible to all eyes but her own; her critical mistake last time, or so she learned while eavesdropping on Gell back in St. Langostine, was the scent of the poison she’d used, so, this time, she went with an unpoisoned blade. It was really an unnecessary flourish anyhow, and much easier just to leave it out rather than attempt to maintain another art in addition to the four she was already using. Stalking up next to the unconscious form of her companion, Scarlet raised the sacrificial blade, and momentarily wondered why Gell would leave himself so vulnerable. But there was no time to wonder, as the blade was already beginning its inexorable descent.

Time seemed to dilate, all the sounds of the forest gradually fading out, until Scarlet was conscious only of her own pounding heart and the movement of the knife. Why was her heart racing like this? Was she nervous? Frightened? She wasn’t entirely sure, but, whatever it was, it was clearly interfering with her job performance; it seemed as though she could barely bring herself to finish her strike. Every inch was harder than the last, as she struggled to bring the dagger down to its target. And then, less than a foot from her destination, she froze. She focused with all her will, attempting to complete the strike, but her arm refused to move. Disgusted with this, she drew back, meaning to try again — but her arm wouldn’t move that way, either. Belatedly, she began to realise that she couldn’t move at all, in any direction; clearly, this was not a case of the jitters.

A trap! she thought, alarmed. The wizard — where is he? Scarlet struggled desperately, trying to break free from whatever snare she’d fallen into, trying to detect any sign of her assailant. But all was silent everywhere.

Just then, a tremendous flash of light illuminated the forest. Scarlet, unable to move, couldn’t even shield her eyes from the shock; after the initial period of dazzled blindness wore off, she found the forest as bright as midday, and was looking down at Gell. Everything was exactly as she’d expected it, the Puritan flopped out on the ground in a completely uncouth manner, snoozing away heedlessly. The only detail that was out of place was that, on his stomach, there was seated a very small winged woman wearing a skimpy green dress and a very serious expression.

“Scarlet,” Sarai stated, matter-of-factly, “we need to talk.”