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It is eat or be eaten.

Treila clenches her fist, feels the absence where her little finger should be.

And then the Lady enters. It is the first time Treila has seen Her since the feast. She still wears Her holy raiment, her garlands of flowers, and here, in this chapel, She is horrifyingly at home. She should be sitting on a dais. She should be accepting prayers.

She does not enter alone.

Phosyne is with Her. Nothing has dimmed her newfound cleanliness, the perfection of her robes, her skin. The squalor of the world cannot touch her, and she seems to accumulate light, illuminated out of keeping with the darkened chapel. Treila’s mouth goes dry at the sight; she looks like she has been carved out of marble. She looks like she belongs here.

It takes a moment for Treila to realize who is missing: the king. Cardimir should be in attendance at Ser Voyne’s funeral, to mourn the passing of his pet. Should be, but his regency is hollow: ever since the Lady first stepped foot inside of Aymar, he has abdicated all responsibility. Wherever he is, Treila doubts he’d care to know his prized knight is lost.

Useless. So useless.

As the Lady and Phosyne near the plinth, Phosyne slows, then stops. Her shoulders grow tense. Her chin lifts with the sort of brittle sharpness that Treila recognizes all too well.

“And where is your Warding Saint?” she asks. This is clearly the continuation of some other conversation, started far away from here.

“Dead as well,” the Lady replies.

“The armor?”

“I imagine she took it before her own death. It was her hand that killed him.”

“And who killed her?”

“I do not know.”

At the door, the Loving Saint shifts, but says nothing. Treila shrinks deeper into the shadows.

Phosyne finally moves once more. She drifts up to the plinth and lays both hands upon it, not touching Voyne’s body. Her shoulders sag. She looks very tired.

“Dead,” she says, softly. “And neither of us there to see it.”

The Lady hums, and approaches as well. She is watching Phosyne, though, not the body. Her eyes glitter in the warm half-light.

“You knew, the whole time we spoke?”

“I did. Does it change your decision?”

What decision?Treila leans closer, eyes fixed. What has Phosyne agreed to?

“It depends. Do you know of a way to reverse death?” Phosyne’s voice is acid.

Treila thinks the Lady is smiling. It’s hard to tell from here.

“I might,” She says. “Give her to me.”

Phosyne’s inhale is audible. Sharp. “No.”

“Give her to me,” the Lady says, “and you may ask for anything in return.”

Anything.

Buried in that promise is a hint of hope.Anythingmight include Voyne’s resurrection. But it might not. The Lady has promised everything and nothing all at once. She has not guaranteed She will even grant a request, only that Phosyne can make it.

She’d be foolish to say yes. Treila wishes she could go to her, show Phosyne her hand again, the side of her head. Make her understand that bargains are all tricks. That she must be careful what she is giving up.

And Phosyne looks like she’s about to say yes.