Ira Hale was about to die for the third time in her twenty-odd years of life.

Ira's vision dimmed. Her feet swung in empty air, unable to reach her assailant. The cold hands that gripped her throat dug so deep they seemed about the cleave through her flesh. Muscles bruised and tore under their crushing weight. Had Ira been human, she would have long lost consciousness to lack of air.

The creature in black regarded her calmly. Ira's hands scrambled for purchase over arms that stretched far above the creature's head, but found her fingers grasping shadows. She was reminded of the lugat she had encountered in her journey to Chervnik. The monster's spindly limbs and rotting flesh were terrible to behold, but it at least had the decency to assume a corporal form. Ira had no hope to best a foe that did not fully exist in the physical realm.

"Traitor," the woman in black hissed.

Her voice rushed in Ira's ears with the might of a torrent. The songstress had been damned by that very word, Ira recalled dimly. The woman's blood dyed the floor red. Her body lay scattered, torn apart by the creature's fury.

Ira let go. Her arms fell at her sides, hanging limply. She did not expect the creature to let her go and indeed, the grip around her neck did not lessen. The woman in black was motionless but the shadows that pooled at her feet twisted in agitation. They rippled upward, as if wishing to swallow the woman in black herself.

The ring Ira wore glinted in the dark. The stone was turned inward; when Ira curled her fingers, it pressed against her bloody palm.

The ring pulsed. Ira felt a bite of cold and then her senses dimmed, as if pulled inward through a crack in reality's shell. Her body remained trapped in the monster's grip but her soul was elsewhere entirely.

Ira had not meant to use the ring Lord Fane left in her possession. She did not trust the man, less out of any fear that he might be scheming her demise and more due to the Vampire Lord's poor foresight and the sheer naivete with which he approached the world. The ring may well be useless. It could also pose a graver danger than the one Ira found herself in at present.

As matters stood, Ira did not hesitate in taking the gamble. A chance at survival, however slim, was better than the certain death that awaited her in the hands of the woman in black.

The world righted itself. Ira stood at the center of a large hall, surrounded by overturned shelves. For a moment, she thought of Beaufort Manor and the library that had been lost to Silva Layfe's last stand. The domed ceiling rose far above her head. The walls, too, bore a curve that resembled the cut of the ring's stone.

Lord Fane's account appeared truthful. Ira was curious to explore the strange space within the ring, but the urgency of her situation did not permit for any flights of fancy. She set to rummaging through the mess in search of anything that would be of use.

The space within the ring was large. Ira could not see where the walls curved back onto themselves, but could tell that much of the hall was unused. What there was lay in disrepair. A cursory look quickly revealed a problem: the books and furniture bore similar damage.

Something had chewed through the contents of the ring.

Ira raised a metal plate left behind in a work area of some kind. The teeth marks were pronounced, leaving one side of the plate jagged.

Something moved in the shadows.

Ira set the plate down slowly. It was easily half her size, and thick enough to withstand a sword. The creature that left it in such a poor state was not to be underestimated. She sought the pull of the ring's magic within her and readied to leave.

A ball of fluff the size of a small horse hopped into view.

Ira stared. The rabbit stared back, its nose twitching. The action would be charming if not for the knowledge that the loppy-eared mammal was the cause of the surrounding destruction.

Lord Fane had warned against storing live animals in the ring, Ira recalled. It appeared that he had been speaking from personal experience.

The rabbit loped forward. Its large, soulless eyes glinted in hunger.

Ira ran. She was not reconciled to leaving just yet, but did not dare engage the mutated rabbit. This was not a physical place. Wounds incurred within the ring may bear unforeseen consequences, and she was in no rush to test the creature's teeth besides.

Pages rose like startled birds where she passed. Many bore colorful illustrations – story books, Ira realized with a pang. The library Lord Fane had tucked away so securely did not contain precious tomes, but means of entertaining a growing, human child. She thought of Alexandra Orlova and wondered if the rabbit, too, had not been a present for the girl once upon a time.

Ira took a sharp turn. A large cabinet lay on its side some distance away, its glass doors long shattered. The glint of metal within the splintered wood was what had caught Ira's attention. She fell to her knees and pulled the remains of the cabinet apart, only to still with her hands half-buried in the cabinet's guts.

The sword tucked inside gleamed like a ghost in the dark.

The rabbit did not advance. It appeared uneasy, it's massive body still as a statue. When Ira pulled the sword from its wooden grave, the creature darted away, disappearing in the shadows at the far side of the hall within moments.

Ira exhaled slowly. The sword was taller than any she had wielded, and far heavier. The blade sang when it arched through the air.

The weapon did not belong to Lord Fane; of this, Ira was certain.

Leaving the ring was just as strange as entering the space within. Ira felt as if her being was poured back into her body, the fit comfortable but confining, not unlike a well-tailored suit. The sword weighted her right hand. She thrust it upward, through the shadowed arm that gripped her throat. The blade pierced the darkness.

The woman in black startled. She drew away, her hands retracting into human limbs. One of them hung limply, obviously injured despite the lack of blood.

"You-"

The woman's voice sounded different. Human, rather than raw power, meant to render the listener to their knees.

Ira fell into a crouch. She raised the sword in a defensive posture and did not falter when she stepped on a spill of dark hair.

The woman in black tilted her head to the corpse at Ira's feet. She staggered a few steps back, as if the sight of the broken body was too much for her to bear.

"You did this," Ira told her.

The woman in black shook her head instinctively before stilling. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Ira Hale," Ira said. The tremor in her voice did not travel to her hands, steady on the sword's hilt.

"That –" the woman winced. She pressed her uninjured hand to her head, muttering to herself. Her fingers twisted the black fabric and pulled.

Ira watched the veil fall, revealing a familiar face.

"Beatrice?" she whispered.

Beatrice Beaufort raised her head. She looked at Ira, her beautiful face drawn in grief and anger so terrible it reddened her eyes.

"It ends here," Beatrice promised.

She raised her hand. Shadows rippled forward, ripping through the stone floor. A hidden trapdoor was exposed once they drew back.

The songstress' torn body had disappeared entirely. Ira wondered if the darkness had swallowed the woman, bones and all.

"Be free," Beatrice bid her.

She turned away. Ira watched her approach a blood-splattered mirror, pause, then resolutely step through, the hems of her dress dragging through like trailing feathers.

The mirror was but a mirror when Ira checked. It reflected her haunted face, its surface smooth and deceptively clear.

Ira did not dare linger. She crouched at the edge of the trapdoor, hoping for a glimpse of the situation on the floor below. Guards would not be out of place. Knowing the Amith Capil, she would not be surprised to find soldiers guarding every floor from top to bottom.

The trapdoor opened to a shadowed staircase. The sound of someone ascending the steps rang out in the silence, each footfall clear and certain.

Ira rose. She positioned herself at an angle so her presence would not be immediately marked, the sword posed to take the head off the first unfriendly visitor.

A moment later, a head did in fact come into view. It swiveled this way and that, placid brown eyes passing over the bloody scene without any change in expression. At last, the man caught sight of Ira and stilled.

"You are invited to the Grand Hall," the soldier said.

Ira raised her brows. "Who extends the invitation?" she asked.

"Lord Barton," the soldier replied.

Ira watched the man. The man watched her back, unblinking.

"Lead the way," she said at last.

The soldier turned on his heel and descended without another word. Ira listened to him walk. He paused after some time, but did not call out for her or return to urge her down. His task was to inform her of the invitation and lead her downstairs. Ira would wager that if she did not follow of her own accord, the Zero soldier would simply remain where he stood.

She took the stairs down. The Zero resumed his steps once he saw her coming, quietly leading her through another floor and down a different staircase, this one tucked behind a proper door.

Down and down and down they went. The floors they passed bore the same circular layout and simple but elegant decorations. Some were better-appointed than others. All lacked windows but their walls glinted with mirrors, small and large.

Ira did not allow her mind to drift. She was keenly aware of her company and the dangers that could lie behind every corner. Part of her attention was always on her guide and her immediate surroundings.

The rest could not however help but travel to the very start of this winding night.

The end came without a warning. Ira would not have thought herself capable of falling for the false security build by the routine in her strange prison, but could not refute that she was caught unaware by the horror that came at nightfall. She did not always come out of her room to listen to the songstress. Likewise, the woman in black did not visit every night. When she did, Ira would hear her footsteps, circling around the songstress like a caged beast.

That night, she had heard a scream instead.

Ira rushed out at the first sound of struggle. She was just in time to see the woman in black rip the songstress' tongue out, pulling out half her throat out of her mouth.

"Traitor," the woman in black had said. Layer by layer, she reduced the songstress to a pile of flesh and bone.

Ira did not know what the songstress had done to incur the woman's wrath. She attempted to interfere – not to rescue, but to end the songstress' suffering. The woman in black was undeterred. Her magic filled the room, inescapable.

The songstress died quickly, but not painlessly. Then, it was Ira's turn.

They reached the landing at dawn. Ira counted ninety-nine floors. She knew, then, that her prison was the Queen's Tower.

Her guide passed through the last door. Ira hesitated, but in the end, there was only one way out. She was curious to see what the Court had planned for her besides.

The Grand Hall occupied the base of the Queen's Tower. There was little grand about it in terms of structure or furnishing, bearing the same simple layout as the many, many rooms Ira had passed. Granted, the sight of a thousand-odd Zero soldiers standing at attention around Lord Barton's stately figure was quite eye-catching, but that did not appear to be the Hall's usual function.

Lord Barton inclined his head in greeting. He did not comment on the sword or her bloody clothes, but the smile on his face seemed to stretch.

"I do hope you have enjoyed your stay," the man said.

"What are you planning?" Ira asked, unwilling to engage in pointless plays of words.

"I am not planning anything, Miss Hale. This is but nature taking her rightful course," Lord Barton replied. He motioned to an empty chair, the only other piece of furniture aside the seat he himself occupied. "Please, make yourself comfortable. They will be here soon."

"Who?" Ira asked.

Lord Barton's smile reached his eyes at last, like fire spreading over dry land. "Your mother's murderers. Is that not whom you came to seek?"

Ira did not react. She forced a response through numb lips. "You claim not to be among their rank."

"I do," Lord Barton agreed. "My crimes are different, child. I will stand trial for what I have done – and so will they."

His voice rang with sharp finality. Whatever the truth, Lord Barton believed what he said.

Ira wondered what sort of justice she would demand, if given the chance. The songstress' mangled corpse rose in her mind.

She settled to wait, cold to the bone.