A thousand lanterns bobbed and danced below the great hall's vaulted ceilings as the violins' wails swelled to a crescendo. Markînu placed his hand on her back, dipping her low as the song neared its end. Graceful as a swan, she pirouetted in place, rising between his arms.

As much as she hated her uncle, there were few times she was happier than at one of his balls. The lights, the music, the food were glorious - but all of them were second place to the rare chance to command Markînu's full attention. Her heart beat faster as she leaned against his chest and raised her lips toward his.

"Get off!"

She fell as her lover suddenly released her. Pain lanced through her leg as her knee hit the marble floor, but she barely even noticed it. What's wrong? Did my uncle get to him too?

Her confusion turned to anguish as she saw her lover's look of disgust, of anger, of hatred.

"Please," she started to beg, her lips trembling.

"What's wrong?" he answered the thoughts in her head. "You killed me." As he spoke, worms and maggots crawled out of his mouth and eyes, leaving trails of mucus across his suddenly corpse-like skin. "You killed me, you did nothing to avenge me, and you ask what's wrong?!" he shouted.

"It's not like that, Markînu." Stumbling to her feet, she grabbed hold of his hand pleadingly. "You have to understand-" She screamed as his arm tore free of its socket, its flesh rotting beneath her grip.

"Traitor," he hissed, and as he spoke, the violins' wail ceased. In unison, the dancers filling the hall stopped at her and even her uncle, hunched over a cup of wine at the high table, looked up with a sneer.

"Traitor," he echoed Markînu's words as more worms crawled out of his eyes.

"Traitor," the crowd echoed. As they turned to face her, Nissilât saw that the dancers in the hall were not her uncle's usual lackeys. They were the soldiers she'd commanded, their faces rotten and bloated in the death she had led them to.

She stumbled backward, Markînu's arm rolling across the ground as it fell from her numb hands.

"No, you don't understand - there was nothing I could do. He set me up!" She pointed at her leering uncle, flinching as he reached up and, dragging a wriggling worm out of his eye, tossed it in his mouth like a delicacy.

"It's always your uncle's fault, never little Nissilat's," her lover replied mockingly. "But there's one way you can atone."

She stopped breathing as he stepped closer and wrapped his remaining hand around her throat. "You can die for me."

"Please," she begged as he began to squeeze.

She wanted to scream, to fight, to beg for forgiveness, but Nissilât was paralyzed as she stared into his maggot-eaten eyes, shame and loathing flooded her system. It's my fault. I deserve this.

"WAKE UP."

A voice echoed far above her, like someone shouting down a well-shaft, but she ignored it. Tears rolled down her face as Markînu squeezed the air out of her lungs. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

"WAKE UP." His rotting face crumbled away as her body was shaken violently. "Are you alright?" Someone asked in her ear.

Her head cracked against someone else's as she bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. Her body was drenched with sweat, so much sweat that the straw mattress she'd been sleeping on felt soggy, and her throat ached. She blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness, as she strained to see the person looming over her.

"Are you alright?"

Nissilât's hand curled around the dagger digging into her side as she finally recognized the archer. The one who killed her Markînu. Her arm shuddered as the desire to bury the dagger into the girl's heart reached an overwhelming pitch. If she struck now, it would be over in a second, and Markînu would be avenged…

"You were thrashing around in your sleep, crying and babbling, and then you started choking," the girl continued, oblivious to Nissilăt's thoughts. "Sorry for touching you, but I couldn't wake you. Are you alright?"

The dagger rolled out of her hand as Nissilât came back to herself. She didn't want to kill the archer. Not really. If anyone deserved to die… "I'm fine," she choked out, finding it surprisingly hard to speak. Her hand gently brushed across her throat, which felt oddly swollen. What is that?

"Are you sure?" Light filled the room as Ihra bent over and lit the little lamp oil the inn had provided. "Selene's grace," she gasped. "What happened to your neck? It looks like-"

The archer went on high alert immediately, plastering her back against the wall and drawing her dagger. "Is he still here?" she called out as her eyes searched the dark corners of the room.

"There was no one here," Nissilât rasped out.

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"Someone strangled you," the archer snapped.

"I…it was just a dream."

"A dream?" The girl relaxed slightly as she verified there was no one else in the room with them, but didn't release her weapon. "Dreams don't leave handprints on your throat, Nissilât."

"I dreamt…" Nissilât couldn't bring herself to tell Markînu's killer what she had dreamed. "I dreamed someone was strangling me; I must have done it to myself," she said uncertainly.

"You did it to yourself?" The girl echoed skeptically. "Do you have a history of harming yourself in your sleep?"

"Yes," Nissilât lied, wanting the interrogation to be over. "It's fine. It was just a bad dream, just a bad dream," she repeated, willing herself to believe it.

She could tell the archer wasn't totally convinced, but she backed off. "Do you want a healing potion?" she offered.

"No." Nissilât flipped on her side, turning her back to the archer. "Just go back to sleep. I'll be fine in the morning."

The shadows dancing across the wall disappeared as the lamp was doused, but Nissilât couldn't fall asleep. I did it to myself, she repeated. It was the only explanation and yet…she was pretty sure her arms had been trapped beneath the inn's heavy woolen blankets when she awoke. Then again, did it matter? It was only what she deserved.

"What the hell?" The first thing Jasper noticed as he slid into the booth that Ihra and Nissilat were sitting in was the ugly purple bruise wrapped around the Stryn woman's throat. A bruise that looked suspiciously similar to a hand.

"What happened to you? A pillow fight gone wrong?" He asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Some of us like it rough," Nissilât tried to play it off, but Ihra rolled her eyes as the woman's usual sultry voice came out in a croak.

"She's refused to be reasonable and take a potion," his friend cut in. "Maybe you can get her to see sense."

"Or I could just heal her." With a shrug, Jasper cast Circle of Forgiveness on the woman.

"You didn't need to do that," she glared up at him, but he ignored her.

"Care to tell me why you look like someone tried to strangle you?" He hadn't expected Nissilât to answer, but was surprised when Ihra shook her head.

"It's her story to tell if she wants to," she replied.

He turned back to the Strynn woman. "You know, if someone's hurting you, we can help." Of course, he couldn't fathom how that was even possible. There were only four of them traveling together right now, and he knew for sure he hadn't done it. Which left only Ihra and Tsia, but he couldn't imagine either of them was responsible for the bruises around her neck.

"If I want help, I'll ask for it," Nissilât replied stiffly. She didn't say anything else, but her message was loud and clear: drop it.

With a sigh, Jasper let it go. There was no way one of their party members was responsible, so it almost had to be someone local - maybe a hook-up gone wrong. He'd keep an eye out for anyone suspicious, but if she didn't talk about it, there wasn't much he could do.

"So…Captain Tōrîl," he drummed his fingers against the table as he brought up the star of their discussion the night before. "Did you get anything out of the villagers?"

"Everyone I talked to seemed to like the man," Nissilât spoke up, grateful for the change of topic. "But I did find something suspicious. The blacksmith said he'd been spending more money than usual with him: new horseshoes, new breastplate and greaves, a resharpened sword, a brand new pair of daggers."

"Those seem like practical purchases for a soldier facing a sudden uptick in bandit attacks," Jasper pointed out.

"True," Nissilât agreed, "And the blacksmith didn't think anything of it. But the list of things he ordered," she paused, her brow scrunching as she counted up on her fingers, "had to have cost at least a few hundred gold. That's more money than I'd expect a soldier of his rank to have, unless he's been hoarding his pay."

"So you think he might be on the take?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Nissilât agreed, "but it doesn't necessarily mean he's in league with the bandits. As the second in command, there are bound to be plenty of opportunities for corruption."

"Like merchants looking to slip illegal merchandise across the border."

"Look who finally decided to wake up," Jasper chuckled as a sleepy-eyed Tsia slid into the booth opposite them.

"You've only been up fifteen minutes longer," Ihra pointed out.

"Still beat her," he grinned. "But you were saying something about the merchants, Tsia?"

Ihra yelped in protest as the girl snagged a half-eaten roll from her plate and chomped down. "After dinner, I took a few drinks over to the guards at the gate. You know, to 'apologize' for you attacking them."

"They're the ones who attacked us first," Jasper grumbled.

"That's not the way they tell it," Tsia smirked. "Most of the men on the wall didn't see what happened, but the story of a rogue Djinn prince attacking the fort traveled fast. Apparently, he was in a berserk rage until only the beauty of Lady Damqa pacified him."

"There's no possible way the story's been corrupted that fast," he spluttered.

"Well, they were pretty drunk by the time they polished off the drinks I brought," she admitted. "I bet if you'd ask them about the story this morning, you'd get something a little tamer. But the liquor loosened their tongues," she continued.

"According to the guards, both Damqa's father and Captain Tōrîl had a 'close relationship' with certain groups of merchants. It got them special privileges, like not having their wagons expected when they passed through or reduced fees. So Captain Tōrîl's wealth might not be related to the bandit problem," she added, looking over at Nissilât.

The woman shrugged. "It was just a possibility."

"And it's one we still can't rule out," Jasper continued. "Did you get anything, Ihra?"

"Nothing useful," she shook her head. "I tried to talk to the men at the keep, but they weren't the welcoming sort. Something about you showing up with their lady draped unconscious over a horse?"

"How was I supposed to know she'd pass out like some Victorian maiden? If anyone's to blame for that, it's Selene."

"Maybe, but they weren't talkative. I didn't think to get them drunk, though," she nodded at Tsia begrudgingly. "It was a good idea."

"What about you?" Nissilât leaned forward. "Did you find any leads?"

"I followed up on what Damqa told me about their last patrol. Spoke with a few of the men to find out what the group's itinerary might have been. They lent us a map with their usual patrols marked out. If we can retrace their steps, maybe we can find something the guards missed."

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