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“Listen to me,” Dawsyn asks abruptly. “Was your son hearing voices? Whispers?”

Nevrak hesitates. “What did you say?”

“Did your son talk of voices in his mind?”

“How could…?” Nevrak frowns. “He spoke to you of the same?”

“It was thosevoices,Nevrak,” she says exasperatedly. “They drove him to madness. It was not Abertha.”

“LIAR!”

“Did you hear him scream in that fire?” Dawsyn pushes. “Didanyonehear Wes scream?”

“Askher,”Nevrak barks, nodding to the woman in his grasp. “She was the only one with him. Fucking convenient, I’d say! That a man she had grievances with had the misfortune of combusting before her fucking eyes.” Nevrak’s voice breaks. Sobs make the spittle fly from his mouth. His throat pushes against Ryon’s sword. “He was just aboy!”

“He was sick,” Ryon says calmly, though his sword does not lower. “No one is at fault.”

“My – boy,” he says, the shudder of pain breaking his words. His chest rises and falls with rage turned to sorrow. In painstaking increments, Nevrak loosens his hold on Abertha, his fingers detangling from the tendrils, and she falls away from him, scrambling on her hands and knees. “No one’s fault?” he asks, tears dripping from the end of his nose, disappearing into the first bristles of beard. “There’s always fault to find. Anyone that dies here in this hole, dies by your hand.”

He points at Dawsyn.

Ryon lowers his sword but does not take his eyes from the man. There’s a muscle feathering along his jaw and Dawsyn knows he wrestles with the desire to crush Nevrak. His eyes flicker to hers, awaiting her say so.

Perhaps she should give it. Perhaps she should rid their journey of the threat standing before her, of a voice far louder than she would prefer. If Nevrak wanted to attack her, there would be a million opportunities to do so down here.

But the man’s belly and shoulders still shake with the force of his loss, and Dawsyn knows well the feeling. She brought this man into the Chasm so that he might escape the early clutch of death, and she does not want to be the one to bring it about. Maybe there was a time when she would have split this Splitter for daring to challenge her, but Dawsyn finds that while she has enough reason, she does not have the energy, nor enough hatred left. Perhaps this sickness has sapped even that: the rage that keeps her upright, keeps her moving.

With a small shake of her head at Ryon, Dawsyn lifts her chin. “Nevrak,” she says, “And every other here!” This time she bellows it, finds the face of any close enough to be illuminated beneath Ryon’s torch. They stand by, watching her with waned expressions, hollowed eyes.

Dawsyn takes a breath. “On the Ledge, we settled our grievances in the way animals do. “We slashed and clawed for what we needed, and anything else besides. We could not turn to each other for charity and compassion when there was not enough to go around. We were given imbalance, and it forced our hand, tilted the odds,” Dawsyn finds Ryon watching her keenly, and for a moment their eyes lock – his dark and awed, as though she were a spectre. “We can no longer afford to settle debts in blood. We cannot continue to tear each other to shreds as if our neighbours were our enemies. Our enemy lives above, and we needn’t aid them.” At that, Dawsyn coughs violently into the crook of her elbow.

Close your eyes… sleep.

“No!” The word rips from her lungs, though she feels the pull to unconsciousness. Whatever magic she still possesses floods her mind, her palms, rushing to heed her call. Her palms glow brightly, leaking light, and the voice becomes nothing at all.

Around her, people stare at her hands. Shocked. Afraid.

“The end to this Chasm nears!” she says it like a prophecy, a divine proclamation. She wills it to be true. “And we will not litter what remains of this path with our bones. We have enough adversaries without turning on each other.” Dawsyn sways, weakened by her own rising voice. She nods to Nevrak. “Mourn your son.” Then she nods to Abertha, who has made it to Dawsyn’s side. “But if you lay a hand on this girl again, I will take it from you, neighbour or not.”

Nevrak spits to the ground before Dawsyn, his expression remaining red-splotched and pained. “You do what you must,” he tells her, finger pointed as though it were a weapon. A stake to run her through with. “And so will I.”

“Be on your way,” Ryon tells him, and the timbre of his voice brooks no protest. The short sword in his hand quivers with eagerness.

With one final sneer in Ryon’s direction, Nevrak lumbers away.

The others follow quickly, disappearing back into the shadows until Ryon and Dawsyn are the only ones standing in the torchlight’s reach. Dawsyn lets loose a breath, and feels the world turn sideways.

Ryon’s arm comes around her in moments, winding around her back and grasping her side. “Easy,” he tells her softly, though the old malice still simmers there, an undercurrent, hastily dampened. He gives a huff of frustration. “You need rest.”

Dawsyn says nothing. They all need rest.

“I should kill him now, malishka,” he mutters, leading her away from the stream, guiding her around the obstacles, both natural and human. “Before his control wanes again.”

But Dawsyn shakes her head.

He emits a gravelled sound, a low growl. “You’ve killed men for much less,” he says, the anger winning out. “As have I.”

“He would deserve it,” Dawsyn murmurs, leaning heavily on Ryon’s embrace. “Abertha is not safe sleeping so near to him.”