I woke up an hour or so before dawn, lulled into consciousness by a splitting headache and the stench of wet dog.

My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pang like the quick thwap of a stick striking a snare drum. Groaning, I squeezed my eyelids together as I rubbed my temples and lamented the night before. The events were hazy and confusing, as if I were viewing them through a kaleidoscope.

I recalled tromping through the graveyard with Anzel, feeling the texture of the squishy moss swallowing my feet all over again. I remembered the bonfire—but I also remembered being too tense to participate in any of the dancing. My gaze had kept returning to the inky darkness surrounding us and my thoughts had buoyed Balthier's voice into my ears.

Never far from you. Never far. So near when you wake, so near when you lay your head down at night. As you sleep, and as you dream, I'm just a breath away.

I'd told myself he'd been lying, that the Sin's presence had merely been an unimaginably cruel fluke—but I hadn't wanted to stay near the ward's edge, and couldn't stare into the darkness for long without a violent shiver wracking my body.

I patted my head and parted my damp hair so I could peer through the strands. My clothes were partially wet, the fabric of my black wool sweater clinging to the creases of my limbs where the fabric couldn't dry. I remembered getting soaked as well. Rain had started to fall not long after the bonfire had started, and it had quickly turned to snow. The white flakes had stuck to my lashes and skin, tinging my face pink with winter's sudden displeasure.

The Aos Sí weren't the kind of people who allowed snow to ruin their good humor. Their antics had moved indoors, taking over the dining room and the main foyer. Soaked and shivering as I had been, Anzel had situated me by the stoked hearth to dry off. I spent the majority of the evening by the warm fire, soaking in the atmosphere of the careless, unbridled magical talent of the Aos Sí crowd. 

Others had been drawn to the festivities. The Sin of Sloth had made an appearance, and I distinctly recollected him sitting at the head of the table and cutting a deck of well-worn cards like a casino mogul. Coins had been thrown into a bronze candy dish, the sound of metal on glass like hail in my miffed remembrances. 

The Dreaming brothers Requiem and Refrain had been there. The two of them were, in their own way, unforgettable—like two marble statues with hair speckled by precious gems and faces rigid as rock. I remembered two dark, sizeable bottles being set out by the dealt cards, followed by the clatter of glasses being gathered. Liquid had sloshed.

The aroma of cinnamon and plums filled my nose anew when I recalled the heady taste of the syrupy, Dreaming elixir. Ugh, elf wine, griped my inner monologue as I peered around the room.

Snoring faeries were draped over the table benches, their spent glasses and bent cards forgotten at their hands. I was resting by the smoldering hearth with a nearly dry werewolf snoring at my side and the Druid curled up in my lap.

Anzel was at the table with the Aos Sí. He was propped upright by one arm with his silken hair falling around his slumbering face in a colorless curtain. The bench Peroth had occupied the night before had been taken by both Refrain and Requiem. They sat with their elbows on the table with the nearly empty bottles of wine in front of them. They were trading a cigarette back and forth. The smell of the smoke was cloying and it was difficult to identify what exactly they were burning. It definitely wasn't tobacco. 

I lifted Lionel by the scruff of his neck and the Druid unfurled like a furry scroll. The creature slit one eye to level me a contemptuous glare that I returned with enthusiasm. "I am not your pillow," I told him. Lionel growled low, shut his sleepy eye, and immediately dropped off to sleep again. 

Unsurprised, I settled the cat on the edge of the hearth so he could keep warm and managed to half-stumble, half-crawl to one of the table's benches. Ignoring how the walls seemed to bend and sway as my head throbbed, I levered myself upright and grabbed the table's edge of for balance.

The two elves were staring at me.

"Uh...morning?" I said as I cleared my throat and took a seat as far from them as I could. They kept staring. Anzel snorted inelegantly in his sleep, grumbling about tea leaves. Uncomfortable and hungover, I tried to ignore the brothers and reached for the nearest pitcher in hopes of finding some water. I almost retched when the scent of plums and cinnamon invaded my nose.

Never again, I vowed as I cemented my molars together. The floor rolled like the deck of a ship coasting through turbulent waters. Never, ever again.

Requiem smirked. He inhaled the sickly smoke and, as he handed the dwindling cigarette to his brother, he said something in that lovely, lilting language common to his people. Refrain responded in kind, and they both laughed. I shot the brothers a peeved glance, not appreciating their rudeness.

A peculiar sensation overcame my drunken malaise as I looked at the Dreaming Children. The shade riled and freely prowled my stunted thoughts, spreading its influence into the far corners of my mind. Requiem and Refrain continued to exchange quiet, clipped barbs, unbothered by my presence—but, as they spoke, their chiming words changed. At least, in my ears they changed.

What were initially just pretty, unintelligible sounds became nouns and verbs and sentences. Stunned, I sat with my breath held as their conversation suddenly became understandable to me. I realized it was Darius's shade somehow acting as a filter between my auditory senses and the part of my brain that interrupted language. The Sin's influence allowed me to comprehend a language I didn't even know the name of.

"...make a difference. Illumina says the spryling has a part to play in the revival," Refrain said as he took a sip of wine.

Requiem grunted, the burns on his face twisting unpleasantly. "We know the visions aren't black and white. I have my doubts."

"As do I. There's nothing to this one."

"Nothing worth value." Requiem threw a glare in my direction. His bright eyes blazed in the somber light of the dying fire. "Nothing but fodder for the World-burner."

I stood up. The Dreaming Children stopped speaking and stared as I gawked, overcome by this newest quirk in my abilities. "I—!" I tried to formulate some excuse, but I couldn't think of anything plausible—so I just ran from the room without a word.

I had understood them! Every word!

I wished I could tell Darius so I could ask him what in the hell was happening, but the Sin of Pride wasn't in Crow's End. He was far beyond my questioning ability. I couldn't ask him, so instead I would seek out the Sin of Sloth. Peroth was usually more than willing to share information, and would be more likely to know more about this newest development. He was the one who had told me what a shadeborn was to begin with.

A sharp stab of resentment towards Darius pierced my middle but vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. I couldn't blame Pride for his reticence regarding information or his ignorance to it. I couldn't blame him for being who he was. Demons older than the stars didn't change. It was my responsibility to understand that and to not expect more than what the Sin was capable of.

I made my clumsy way up the spiral steps to the mezzanine. My head hurt and my side ached, but I'd felt much worse in the recent past. A little hangover and some nominal bruising was well within my pain tolerance. Even so, I was thirsty as blazes. My throat and mouth were void of moisture, and my sore eyes felt dry and swollen. I went to turn around and head back to the kitchens.

There was someone behind me.

I was too disoriented to yelp, though my heart began to thunder when I caught sight of Berour standing in my shadow. The Sin of Gluttony wore the same young guise I had first seen him wear so many months ago. He was skin and bones with an unflattering haircut and a liberal splash of freckles dotting the taut flesh of his young face. He wore the same overlarge jumper and the same gaudy golden cross. 

The Sin bore all of his crooked, childish teeth in a ghastly grin. "'Be alert and of sober mind—."

"'Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.' I've heard this rhetoric from you before," I stated as I retreated from the creature's easy reach. "It's still nonsense I've no time for." 

I retreated more and Berour followed, his black eyes trembling with excitement. What was he doing here? He's mad, Darius's voice echoed. Madder than the rest of us, at least.

"It comes," the Sin warbled in his broken, pre-teen voice. "It comes for us all. One step, two step, three step, four steps more. Ever closer! Closer now! Traipse upon the line of eternity and reach out for it, clawing and biting and sniffing and snarling—!" Berour snapped his jaws to illustrate his point. "The end! The end! My god, the end!"

He was stark, raving insane. I spun and began to climb the next set of stairs as quickly as I could. Berour followed yet again, his footsteps hitting each step with the weight of a small army.

"What in the hell do you want?" I demanded over my shoulder as I debated whether or not to run. If I ran, would I only trigger a chase?

"Your fear," the creature answered with surprising lucidity. As he walked, his form began to swell and enlarge as years of age stole the image of the freckled youth and replaced it with the body of a leering man. "I was sent for your fear."

He moved abruptly and brushed his fingertips along the hem of my black sweater.

I bolted.

Berour's hand whipped forward with the speed of an attacking viper as he snatched my ankle. I kicked with my other foot before he could squeeze and break bones. I felt the crunch of his nose breaking beneath my heel and his fingers slipped from my leg.

I wasn't far from Peroth's office. I had only to throw myself up the final few steps of the stairs and crash through the waiting door. Berour was inches behind me, a seething, rancorous monster bursting through the entrance when the door tried to close again. His sightless, mad eyes swung through the room and landed upon me.

To my horror, Peroth wasn't in his office. The room was mostly dark, his perch at the paint-spotted easel left barren. There was, however, someone else seated behind his cluttered desk.

"Amoroth!" I yelled as Berour caught a handful of my hair and yanked with considerable strength. The Sin of Lust was using Peroth's laptop, her face and front illuminated by the monitor's blue light. Her head snapped up when I first came barreling into the room.

"Get off!" I fought the Sin's grip on my hair as he twisted it about his fist. My scalp burned and my eyes watered, but I continued to kick and struggle in an attempt to free myself. Gluttony held on with his manic grin still firmly in place and blood trickled from his busted nose.

"Berour." Amoroth rose as she realized the situation was direr than she initially thought. Her keen eyes flickered as her voice was filled with warning and, if I wasn't mistaken, worry. "Berour, let her go."

"The fifth-born, the fifth-born, the little girl who led to our wrack and ruin," Berour sneered as he wove his thick finger more insistently through the strands of my hair. I threw my elbow into his chest as the Sin craned my neck back toward himself. "Come, come, little bird. The lion paces and waits to devour. Let's do as he bids, that lion of ours. Let's make this one fear."

Bruises formed on my arms and legs as I thrashed in Berour's unforgiving hold. I didn't know why he wanted me to be afraid, but I knew it couldn't be good. I refused to be afraid. I filled myself with righteous indignation and tried to pry myself free despite the pain attacking my scalp. The pain and anger dulled the fear.

Amoroth came around the desk with her hands held up in placation. "Berour...you're in Peroth's house. You know you mustn't—."

"The little bird sings, she sings so pretty in our ears. But I won't listen, I won't." Berour shook his head, disturbing the severe part of his drab hair. "The fifth-born is no match for me, he says. I am so much older. He says you cannot interfere."

Who was Berour talking about? He was worried about Amoroth interfering. Was his behavior not random? His words implied a method behind his illogical actions. What did Berour want?

I didn't care what the mad thing wanted. I wanted him to let go!

Summoning up as much strength as I could, I ignored the fire threatening to ignite my scalp, twisted, and rammed my forehead into the Sin's already broken nose. The effect I had was minimal, but the distraction was exactly what I wanted.

When Berour winced and recoiled from my blow, Amoroth darted forward. She struck Berour where I had, but where my weak gesture had failed, her magnified strength excelled. Berour stumbled and was forced to release his grip on me when Amoroth followed the first punch with a second. I tore free with a gasp as Amoroth went in for a final blow—but Berour was faster. He threw the Sin of Lust from himself and pounced on me once more.

The chill stole the manor's warmth as the two Sins devoured energy to increase their abilities. Berour grabbed my arm, jerking it downward to put me at a disadvantage. Pain radiated through my bones as he squeezed too tightly and stressed the joints, but I held fast. Gritting my teeth, I clawed at the Sin's eyes.

Mad as he was, he didn't seem to notice when I drew blood.

"Bastard," Amoroth seethed as she got off the floor, nursing a bloody lip. "Get it through your thick skull, Berour—!"

The Sin of Gluttony snarled as Amoroth swung at him. He threw me into her path like a human shield—and Amoroth linked her arm about my middle, pulling us both from Berour. She inadvertently crimped her elbow upon my wound. I held my breath and tried not to pass out.

"What did you do?!" she demanded as she dodged Berour's attempt to snatch hold of me again. He was getting frustrated. The more frustrated the Sin became, the more his control and temperament unraveled. His eyes were wide, bulging, and still black as tar.

"Nothing!" I snapped as Amoroth set me on my feet. "I don't know what he wants!"

With a savage sound unlike any animal I'd ever heard before, Berour attacked Amoroth. He shoved her with a vicious blow and flung the smaller woman into the desk. The desk bowed and splintered below the force of her landing and a storm of thrown papers.

I expected her to rise as Darius or Peroth would—but Amoroth wasn't an Original. She wasn't as powerful, and Berour's blow had caught her in the chest, striking the still healing wounds left by either Envy or Wrath. I went to the woman's side, eyeing the leering Sin of Gluttony as I tried to get Amoroth onto her feet.

The Sin of Lust coughed, and blood welled. It dribbled from the corner of his broken lip and pattered onto her shirt. She groaned and, as she sat up, I saw a letter-opener buried to the hilt in her back over her left lung.

Berour loomed. His shadow crossed the light of the chandelier and plunged us both into darkness. Cold assailed the room and lined the floorboards with a lace of delicate, frigid ice. Light should have brimmed in the Sin's eyes as he stole the office's energy, but they remained black. Black and mindless. Soulless.

My eyes bounced in all directions, searching for anything I could use against him. My hands brushed the sides of my pants. I registered the presence of a hard lump in one of the pockets, and I fumbled for it. The switchblade Cage had given me a number of weeks ago fell into my open palm.

The bone handle was warm—warmer than it should be.

"If you find yourself in danger, you can use your own blood as the medium with which you create your constructs," the mage had murmured through the enchanted bars of his prison as I'd taken the knife in my hand.

The knife snicked open. It trembled in my grasp.

"It is also the very definition of black magic."

Berour laughed as I stared at the open knife and Amoroth clutched her wounded chest. The situation had escalated so quickly. Where was Peroth? Why were Amoroth and I here alone at this crucial moment when we needed help?

I could have given in to fear. I could have called out to Darius—but Berour wanted my fear. I didn't know why, but I could only assume it had something to do with Darius, and if Berour wanted Darius to appear, then I needed to make sure he stayed away.

A plan more convoluted than I could conceive was at work here. Berour was just the messenger.

"A knife? A knife! For cutting and slicing and stabbing?" the madman asked as he trod nearer. Amoroth grabbed me by the waistband and yanked me backward. Even in agony, the woman was eyeing Berour with unabashed fury. "What fun! What fun!"

I looked from the knife to my free, splayed hand.

"But you're not afraid." The corners of Berour's lips were tugged down. Amoroth was slowly reaching for the letter opener. "But you're supposed to be afraid."

The seconds felt like hours, every breath a hurricane of motion in the dead stillness of the wrecked office. Peroth wasn't coming. No one was coming. In the liminal hours of the day, when the dawn was just stealing over the horizon's threshold like a silent burglar, there wasn't a soul who could help us. Help me.

Berour wanted—needed—my fear. He needed my fear to call Darius. I didn't understand why, but I refused to draw the Sin of Pride into danger. It gave me strength to know I wouldn't be responsible for whatever nightmare the Sin of Gluttony was trying to trigger.

The switchblade sliced across my open hand. Crimson drops pattered upon the floor and froze in place.

Gluttony huffed like an unindulged toddler. "Be he said you need to be afraid!" His fists clenched and unclenched in rapid succession as his knuckles popped and his shuffling feet broke the ice. "I'll make you afraid!"

My finger skated through the blood spilling across of my wounded palm. The image of two circles came into being.

"Be frightened, mortal," Berour droned, his voice deepening several octaves as his flighty mind centered upon its goal. "The end comes for you. The devil roams. The lion must feed."

"Gaspard," Amoroth rasped as blood continued to drip in thick strands from her clenched teeth. "Run."

The construct was almost complete. It encircled the deep slash on my left hand. I infused each meandering whorl I painted with my will as I focused utterly on my task. I won't die here. Not like this.

"Fear, mortal."

"Gaspard!"

Berour clasped my wrist and yanked me upright. "Fear!" he screamed inches from my face, his madness almost palpable, like the warmth of a fever given by a malicious infection.

Magic flooded my being. The shade didn't intervene. Indeed, it remained with me, a hand upon mine, guiding its motion.

"No," I retorted. My arm rose and swung. The construct fed by blood and my very being collided with Berour's expansive chest.

It happened in an instant. Adrenaline roared in my ears as my heart continued to race. The explosion built like a breath inhaled before a diver leaps from the board. Pure white light bloomed and grew, burning and consuming all its vicinity until there was nothing but the light. No sound. No color. No anything.

Then, the world exhaled.