Dinner with Demons

“Commander?” The voice emerges from within her ear with a certain amount of static noise. Considering the distance between the two of them, this is a thing she has grown accustomed to. “Yes, Decameron?” She speaks with utmost confidence, knowing that the slightest hint of hesitation could be interpreted as weakness by her subordinates. The speaker in her ear crackles a bit more before the reply arrives. “We are unable to locate Hazuki. Should we assume the worst?” The static crackling goes quick. This is her thinking pause; despite the fact that is has to be brief, she knows this is a grave decision. “We’re in enemy territory. We should assume the worst, even if it is an experienced agent. Like Hazukimaru.”

Her brows furrow out of frustration. Even if they assumed the worst, they could still hope for the best. She presses her finger against the ear canal, activating the microphone. “Yes, lieutenant.” With another static, she receives the standard “copy that”, as emotionless as her subordinate can muster, and goes off to fulfill his duties. She knows what the code dictates that she should do in this situation, but she is, now that she has privacy, hesitant. If she contacts the HQ now, they would immediately request her team to retreat.

Hazukimaru was, or is, “positive thoughts!”, an officer of a rank comparable to herself and therefore, possessed the strength to fend off, or possibly even eliminate, the targets they had been assigned to deal with. But that was not the mission he had been assigned to perform. On the contrary, he had been handed a far more prestigious and not to mention dangerous mission: espionage. He had let his facial hair grow to the point where it became a full beard. He had neglected exercise as well, leaving his body a shadow of his former self. A part of she envied him for the placid way their superiors had treated him and just how dedicated he could be. Another part of her felt immense pity for the man.

He was to be placed in a vulnerable position, and his return was by no means guaranteed. It’s not like hers is either, but it is far more likely, given how she is supposed to operate today. In addition, she felt a sliver of disgust deep down in her bowels; Hazukimaru had been a rather handsome man prior to his transformation and it had bothered her to look at what he had become.

A cold hand seizes her heart all of the sudden. She shudders as the foreboding sensation spreads through her body. What if Hazukimaru was terminated? What if more agents are lost today during this operation? Agents who could have outdone Hazukimaru one day? Maybe she really should call HQ regarding his disappearance. It is, after all, her duty as a leader to assess the graveness of the situation to prevent unnecessary losses. Yet, she still needs to regard this from another perspective, as well; this is a mission of utter importance. Her superiors, with whom she has had little direct contact with prior to this, could not stress that enough during the briefing.

Her eyes trail over to the emergency communication Lacrima resting on a nearby crate. “''If I fail, will I be demoted? Will I have to deal with the shame that brings?''” The commander ponders, while her eyes trail to the path forwards. It is illuminated only by a select few torches, leaving the rest in the dark. How strong could this Dark Guild be, anyway? It’s not like they, to the best of her knowledge, actively terrorize people. There is little intel on them that indicates that they are anything but misanthropic and perhaps, sacrilegious. Their only apparent criminal activity she had found in the files detailed theft, refusal to register as a guild, and potentially aiding a fugitive. The last part is indubitably dubious, but rumor has it they are somehow associated with Chang’e. Even mere gossip of such was enough to cause the council to send an elite squadron to apprehend or eliminate them, depending on their level of cooperation.

She doesn’t expect to find Chang’e here. That would have been too easy. She has successfully evaded the council’s keen snout for so long, only to supposedly appear near a castle in the middle of the dense forest. A castle which, according to the locals, is the home of a group of criminals calling themselves “Faux Babylon”. Most of these seem to be petty criminals with an affinity for Magic. Yet, they had not encountered even a single guard when they had climbed the stairs to the entrance. Only when Hazukimaru had left the perimeter, posing as an unsuspecting hiker, had he seemingly been able to establish contact with the guild’s members. If they had attempted to kill him on sight, she is fairly positive that he would have been able to take them on.

After all, if the local population was to be believed, they were just petty thieves. They couldn’t possibly be that strong. If they truly were, then they would have gone for something more valuable than coin!

It is with these thoughts in mind, commander Linna Fyora decides to not contact HQ. There is always a risk of losing a team member, particularly a spy, in missions like these. And if Chang’e truly is here, and discovers that the Magic Council has sniffed her out, they would never get the chance to get close to her again. She has to pull through.

As if on demand, the speaker in her ear crackles with static again. “Commander?” It is Decameron again. Fyora gently places her finger inside her ear canal to activate the speaker. “Yes, lieutenant? Have you found something?” There is a slight disturbance, but she then receives her reply. “Affirmative,” he replies. “We have located a room with a considerable concentration of people. Still no signs of Hazukimaru.” “''So good news and bad news. I’ll take it.''” With a swift turnabout, the commander gazes at the items resting near the Communcation Lacrima. “I have to fetch my equipment. When I contact you again, commence teleportation.” “Affirmative.”

She examines the various items, neatly resting against the crate. There is a black body suit, a Lacrima light bender in the shape of a watch, a muffling Lacrima collar, and a pouch of smokescreen pellets. Judging by the situation, she is going to need everything sans the black body suit; the Lacrima light bender has near full battery, so there is little risk of her being exposed until she wants to be. With agile movements, she straps the accessories around her left wrist and neck respectively, while attaching the pouch to her waist strap. “Ready, lieutenant,” she says, with as much authority as she can muster. Once she finishes saying that, a green light engulfs her and the surroundings of the perimeter disappear.

They are replaced by the sight, and not to mention smell, of a cramped corridor. Around her are the other six members of the crew, lieutenant Decameron included. The lighting in here, just like in the hallway, is minimal. Only a select few torches light up the way forward. In fact, there is even more space between them here than back there. In return, there is a source of light in the distance: a pair of open doors unveils an uplit room brimming with sound and activity. It is difficult to make out the various silhouettes dancing around the candles and torches, but there seem to be quite a few people inside.

Fyora turns to face her subordinates, eyes glowing with intent. “Establish a parameter of Jutsu Shiki once we enter the room. We cannot allow them to escape.” She is trying as hard as she can to sound authoritative while maintain a low voice volume. Her eyes trail the audience, as stern as they can be, attempting to convey the graveness of the situation. “When I give the signal, we surround them and try to apprehend them.” Fyora paces a bit, closing her eyes. “If they resist, terminate them.” Her eyes are back on the unit. “Is that clear?” Instead of simultaneously shouting “yes, commander!” like most units tend to, they all stick to the gesture appropriate for those with covert ops training: they simply nod.

Fyora presses a few buttons on the muffling Lacrima near on her throat, effectively ensuring that no one sans her team could hear her with their headphones. She then activates the light blender Lacrima to become virtually invisible. The rest of her team proceeds to do the same thing. One by one, they disappear from her field of vision. “Everybody clear?” She says, disregarding the volume of her voice now, thanks to the muffling crystal. “Yes, commander,” six voices reply. “Thermal vision goggles on, everyone,” Linna commands, while putting on her own, which had been resting on her head. Without these, they would have bumped into one another while moving around, effectively jeopardizing any stealth.

Six red and blue silhouettes appear in front of her, making coordination possible again. “Delta, Flora, Bianco, Storm, construct the Jutsu Shiki barrier once we enter,” she says, turning towards the hallway leading to the open doors. “Decameron, Hannelore, get into sniping positions on the walls. I will do the same.” There is no way the boorish criminals could possibly escape now. The plan is just about foolproof.

Fyora, as she is first in the line of people, is the first person who enters the room. The sudden change of lighting will take some time to acclimatize, but it is refreshing, after being stuck in the dank hallway all day. The room is nothing extraordinary, she notes, as her eyes sweep its impressions. It consists mostly of stone and has little to no decoration, sans the chandelier hanging over the table. “''It’s surprisingly puritan for a Dark Guild. They must be really poor.''”

As she makes her way towards one of the walls, Fyora examines the few people facing the door, the ones on the opposite side of the table. There is a scantily clad man with rather dark skin, accompanied by a redhead wearing some strange leather clothes, a woman with purple hair and red eyes, fixated on petting a snake coiled around her wrist. Next to her is a blonde child wearing a peculiar hat. “''Kids? They recruit kids? What kind of guild is this?''” Next to the kid, a blonde person whose visage is noticeably androgynous is sitting. They are gorging on some sort of streak and seem to be too occupied eating to even converse with the others. The seat next to him is empty. Her eyes trail back to the kid, then to the purple woman. She appears to be too above the situation to even consider talking to the people. The snake has her full attention.

For a moment, Fyora swears that the snake has hers too. It appears as if it is looking directly at her. But it has to be her imagination, since the snake can’t see her. She is invisible, for heaven’s sake! So she keeps moving alongside the wall, to the other side. With this, she is almost properly positioned. The faces of the people on the other side of the table are also visible. There is a woman with long, flowing dark brown hair wearing fancy clothes accompanied by an elderly gentleman with an eyepatch. She seems to be rather drunk. Next to them is some sort of ranine creature. It is vaguely reminiscent of the creatures the old council used, but it is far larger. Two people who seem to be busy conversing with each other sit next to him. “No signs of Chang’e here. It was a fluke,” she says into the microphone, with a hint of disappointment betraying her otherwise professional tone. “Proceed as planned nonetheless.”

It appears as if both Decameron and Hannelore are in position, while the other four are nearly finished establishing the Jutsu Shiki barrier. None of the members say a word, the air filled with tension and anticipation. This, of course, allows Fyora to listen to the conversations the criminals are having. The elderly man and the dark-haired drunkard seem to be agitated. “Sūmi has been gone for far too long now,” the elderly man bumbles with marked sourness. “Don’t hold it against her, Flynn. You know how impatient she is.” Whoever this Suhmee is, she must certainly also be a member of the Dark Guild. They cannot risk that a member escapes. “It seems like not every member is present, people. We have to wait,” Fyora declares through the microphone.

Out of the blue, a hole forms next to the vacant seat and several people with stiff movements climb out of it, then start walking around. “''One, two, three, four, five, and six… Six? How did six people fit into a hole that tiny?''” Perplexed, the commander merely observes the charade. “Speak of the devil,” the brunette chuckles, bringing a goblet to her lips. “Is that a Suhmee?” Three of the newly arrived proceed to move to the other side of the table, standing behind the purple-haired woman. Once more, she meets the beady, black eyes of the snake. It sticks out its tongue, wiggles it up and down and pulls it back in. Then it turns, slithering up the woman’s arm and leans against her ear. She raises her hand, silencing the chattering group. All eyes fall on her, including Fyora’s.

“Caligula just made me aware of seven people who have intruded this room,” she speaks with a soft voice, containing little to no concern. “They are currently constructing a barrier to seal us in.” A cold sensation runs down Fyora’s back. Could the snake speak? How? She is invisible and muffled! There is no way the snake can possibly notice her. They have never been compromised before. She is prepared to give them the signal now. Even if they have been compromised, they can’t possibly fail now!

But all stops, as she hears a familiar voice; a giggle, with sonorous innocence and a noblewoman’s elegance, emerges from within the hole. “So they are here already? I was wondering when they would come looking for their comrade.” A drop of icy cold sweat runs down Fyora’s neck. “''They rumors were right. They were right all along.''” Her arms are quivering. She can both feel it and see it through the goggles. Her legs are in a similar condition, but slightly more stable. Her heart’s palpitation increases. Another droplet runs down her forehead. Out of the blue, a football is ejected from the hole and lands on the floor, near the door. It rolls for a few seconds, and then slumps down. Following it is an inconsistent trail of red. It looks vaguely familiar, but also strange, in a sense. Footballs don’t have hair. Or eyes. Neither do they leave red trails. She swallows. The sonorous voice sighs, as a blue silhouette phases out of the hole. It shuts close once the entire figure is out.

Chang’e smiles at the serpent woman. It is the same luscious smile, the same shade of red dyeing her lips. The same mannerisms, the same eerie, otherworldly attributes; she hasn’t changed at all. “Where exactly are they, Wilma?”

The woman named Wilma rises, and sighs, as if it is an arduous effort. “I’ll just show you,” she nigh mumbles, then looks at the snakes. “Cover your mouths and close your eyes, please – Caligula. Purulent Shower.”

Fyora is not quite sure what just happened. One moment, the snake opens its maw and the next, a noxious yellow gas fills the room. She does not react quickly enough, and some of the gas enters her throat. It stings deep down her esophagus. It is in her eyes too, and they too start to burn. It feels like her insides have started to cramp and Fyora starts coughing sporadically. Between the fits, she can hear that the others are struggling with the very same thing. Then, a gust of wind passes by, blows off her goggles and clears the noxious smog. Where did it come from? With watery eyes blurring her vision, Fyora attempts to distinguish the silhouettes standing around the table. After blinking a few times, she can barely make out their faces. Faces which are looking directly at her. Some are looking at the mustard yellow figures of her subordinates, who wobble around. One of them has even vomited. “The damned gas made us visible?!”

“Thank you,” she hears the melodic voice utter. Panic settles in. They’ve failed to ambush their targets. “What the hell kind of guild is this?” With as much composure as she can, she shouts into her microphone, what could possibly be her last command: “'''Fight to kill! I repeat, fight to kill! Our ambush has failed!'''” She rises, now with a clearer look on the gradually dispersing crowd in the middle. “There are so many of them.” She notices that a hunched figure hops in her direction, all while giggling. It is the child. Would she have to kill a child now? The kid rises from the hunched position and manifests a magical circle with her hands. A gush of water is released, heading straight towards her. With a swift roll, she easily dodges this simple maneuver.

Then, a sharp, stinging pain manifests on her left shoulder. Flicking her eyes over to the area, she notices a ring blade, as large as an inner tube, stuck in her flesh. The purple leather has been sliced open, and oozing blood starts running down her shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she pulls it loose and gazes at the blonde again. She severely underestimated the girl – nay, the young woman, who is now snickering at her successful attempt at injuring her. The hussy is obviously in on this, and is no one’s puppet. Her sense of mercy, while still present, is considerably less prevalent. “Dark Écriture: Suffering!” Fyora shouts, releasing purple rules with the flick of her wrist. It hits the girl directly in the chest, causing her to topple over and scream in agony.

As the girl lies on the floor, helpless, Fyora gazes across the room. At this point, calling it a battlefield is more appropriate. All the members of her crew are engaging someone, some even more than one, at this point. Delta is dauntlessly releasing orbs of fire to repel the blond with multiple mouths. Flora is shooting hunks of poison at the brunette, all of which connect, slamming her back. Bianco is surrounded by the rigid people and redhead, but keeps them at bay by causing constant traction in his parameter. Storm is dodging the elderly man’s sword swings, while attempting to hit him with his slime whip. Hannelore is occupying Wilma and her snake by levitating and shooting them with her firearms. Finally, Decameron is shooting needles at a young man with an extreme case of bedhead, who is hiding behind what appears to be a blob. Currently, it appears as if she is the only one who is finished with the job.

The girl is still down for count, mouth frothing with foam, eyes rolled back. A gnarled, raspy hiss emerges from behind her. It is one of the stiff people; more precisely, a blonde woman dressed to the nines. She is carrying a plethora of napkins and throws them at Fyora with marked precision. Then, out of the blue, she lunges, mouth agape. Fyora sidesteps, but only at a hair’s breadth. The pointy, inhuman teeth had nearly connected with her face. With a swift movement and vehement force, she fires a punch aimed at the woman’s face. Once it connects, and Fyora clocks the woman so she topples over, the commander notices something strange.

Her skin is icy cold. The woman even seems unfazed when she lands. Her eyes are still wide open, staring directly at her. A shiver runs down her spine. “What kind of ability is this?” With ruthless efficiency and accordance to her own command, Linna decides to end the battle then and there. “Dark Écriture: Death!” The purple runes slam into the moaning woman’s abdomen, slamming her into the ground. She coughs for a moment then slumps down, motionless. “Okay, two down, just the rest to go.”

She turns to face the battlefield once more, assessing the situation. It looks like the brunette is down for count, but now the elderly man is fighting both Storm and Flora. The rest are still struggling the same, and it appears as if the enemies are gaining the upper hand. She has to assist them. A strange gurgling sound, accompanied by raspy breath emerges from behind her. The kid seems more resilient than most, since she is waking up so soon.

But it isn’t the kid. It’s the blonde woman rising from the ground, as expressionless as ever. “Th-this…” Fyora mutters, taking a step back. “Th-this isn’t possible! Y-you’re dead! I killed you!” Her voice escalates to the point of shouting. The commander shuffles back another few steps. “Wh-what the hell are you?!”

She receives an answer in the form of a melodic lilting sound coming from behind her. “Kyonshī,” it hums, descending ever closer to her head. Fyora would have recognized the voice anywhere. Heels skid as she turns around to face the smiling Chang’e. The woman is floating above the mess of a situation they are currently in with a shit-eating smirk plastered across her face. “Kyonshī,” she repeats, exaggerating her lilt even more. “And you did not kill her.” Chang’e opens her eyes, unveiling the bottomless blue pits inside the sockets. “She was already dead.”

“Dark Écriture: Death!” Fyora shouts at the top of her lungs, desperation overflowing. The little fairy floats a bit to the side, causing the runes to miss her and they crash into the wall instead. “Tch, tch,” Chang’e chastises, with exaggerated finger-wiggling. “You should preserve your magical energy more. You will not be able to use another one of those anytime soon.” “Fuck you!” she sneers, preparing to fire yet another rune at this wicked wench. “Watch your back, dear,” the fairy sings, before she floats in the direction of the other battles.

A sharp pain quickly spreads through the commander’s back. She screams with surprise. Whatever just got dug into her shoulder is very sharp and elongated. The sound of crunching emerges, while the pains simultaneously intensify. What the hell is going on behind there? Lifting her foot from the ground, Fyora then sent it backwards, hitting whatever is behind it. It strikes what feels like the abdominal region, sending the person a bit back. Flipping around, she turns to face her attacker and places a tender hand on the injured area. Her pupils dilate and her mouth hinges open. A sweet, somewhat metallic scent is in wafting through the area. It is the scent of her blood; her blood on the thing’s teeth. The blonde woman’s maw is drenched in blood, but her eyes and face seem just as unenthusiastic as they had been prior to attacking.

“Dark Écriture: Subjugation!” Dark ropes shoot out of the runes that hit the zombie’s chest, pinning her to the ground in a helpless state. Now, she could focus on helping the others since the two opponents she had already faced are down for count. “The traitor will never see this coming.” She flicks her wrist back, prepared to fire off another spell, but the pain in her shoulder hampers her. Damn. Her left arm is basically useless. “Helena, is this a time to be lying around like that?” The blue pixie shouts with as much condescension as possible. In the distance, a reply emerges. “And you’re one to talk, you lazy troll.” It is the voice of the brunette who had been talking to the elderly man. The one who had taken a direct hit from hunks of poison.

“She is distracted”. Now is definitely the ripe time to let the former council member have a taste of her own medicine. “Dark Écriture: Fear!” With a push of her right hand, a set of runes smash straight into the blue woman’s back. Her body moves slightly forward, as if lightly pushed. A smirk is draped all across Fyora’s face. “That’ll teach you, terrorist!” Her body slowly starts descending towards the ground, slightly slumped. The dainty shoes hit the stone floor with gentle care.

“Teach me what, exactly?” The voice is as lucid as ever, if a bit more monotone. She can only see the back of Chang’e’s head. She swallows once, a big lump of pus and phlegm. Then again, only spit this time. She slowly turns around, all while hovering. The soulless pits are staring directly at her, mouth agape in a dumbfounded manner. As if a confused dog, Chang’e tilts her head slightly in a dumbfounded manner. Then lips then curl into a crimson smile, front teeth just exposed. “You monster!” Fyora’s bloodcurdling screech echoes within the hall as raises her arm, preparing another spell.

“You.”

The voice is coming from behind her again. It’s raspy and bitter, brimming with resentment. Fyora turns, shivers running through her body. It’s the girl. The spell has ceased its effects on her. If she is to judge by her reaction, she is not pleased. A purple aura, gnarled and emanating putrid stench, surrounds her. Her eyes, which Fyora thought to have seen as bright blue, shine a vivid shade of rust. The long sleeves covering her arms seem to drip with a foul liquid; droplets hit the ground and disintegrate the rock, leaving only steam. “You,” she repeats, voice pinched. “You humiliated me in front of everyone else.” Fyora takes a step back. What is with these people? Can they even be called people? “'''I’m going to hurt you. So bad.'''” The girl raises her arms, causing the aura to follow her. Long streams of blackish purple travel into the air, forming a blob of sorts.

“Dark Écriture: Pain!” The commander flicks another set of runes at the girl, hitting her directly. She is unfazed, still gathering gunk that reeks of death. “Shit, shit, shit.” Fyora’s veins are pumping blood constantly, causing everything to throb. She turns around, facing the rest of the crowd and their battles.

Or rather, the absence thereof. There is no more fighting going on in other parts of the room. Delta’s mangled body lies at the feet of the many-mouthed blond, who has now resumed eating steak. Storm’s chest has been perforated by a blade, his body now attached to a wall. Flora’s bloody body hangs in the air, attached to what appears to be the brunette’s extended fingers. Several limbs lay spread about near the zombies, while the redhead is tossing a head up and down with one hand, smirk placed around the corners of her mouth. The snake is in the process of swallowing a body; only its feet are visible.

Decameron is still putting up a fight, shooting more and more spikes at the youth hiding behind the blob. Then, the blob stretched and implodes, causing the spikes to ricochet right back into his body. His body slumps over, lifeless.

“You cannot escape.” The creaky voice affirms from behind her. Fyora glances over her shoulders, trying to assess just how far away from the girl she is getting. The blob is only increasing in size as she leaves. “That thing is going to explode soon!”

Too late, she realizes that she has run into something, stopping dead in her tracks. It is mostly black, sans the long hair running down the middle. It turns around: it’s the brunette. Her claws shrink, causing the body of her comrade to fall down and crash into the ground unceremoniously, as she turns around, face dour. “Sorry.”

Something hits her abdomen. At first, it just feels warm. Then it starts to sting. Things are pouring out of her, things that shouldn’t. The commander looks down, and sees four elongated rods poking her stomach. She glances over her shoulder. They are on the other side too. She has been impaled. And that is not all: she is closer to the little girl than she was before. The spears recede and leave her abdominal area. The stinging only increases as they exit, which also causes various liquids to pour out from the holes. Some were brown, some yellow, but the majority, red. The woman lands on her back, lying in her own spilled juices. The purple goop looms overhead. Shrill laughter. It shrinks in size. Maybe the girl’s having second thoughts.

Then it falls.

~*~

She is not sure how long she has been lying in this position. Has it been days? Hours? Minutes? Seconds? It is difficult to tell. The only thing she really knows right now is that she doesn’t want to feel this way again; she just wants it to end. She didn’t really know that she could feel like this. The pain, she means. And the numbness. The sensation is indescribable. At first, she only felt pain, but she couldn’t scream. When she tried, her throat was constricted and it felt like her windpipe was being crushed. So she tried to shut it out, and instead tried to cope by squeezing something with her hand.

That didn’t work either. Her muscles had stopped working. Nothing in her body worked. All she could do was to lie still and feel as her exterior body dies, which is what she still is doing. It was especially bad with the nerves at first, but she doesn’t really feel much anymore. Except for the constriction. Everything feels tight. Her innards could burst through her skin any minute now and she knows it. Yet, there is nothing she can do about it, sans waiting. At first, her eyes had been open. But as she started losing control of her muscles, her eyelids had gradually started to slip shut. Not like it really mattered, though. All she had been able to see was the ceiling.

She still can hear, although not well. There are whispers in the distance, laughter, sighing and shouting. It is, for the most part, unintelligible. Occasionally, she hears familiar words, like “yes”, “why?”, and “really”. They still lack complete context. Muffled footsteps loom in the horizon. They aren’t even considering coming near her. “Well, aren’t you a mess?” Or so she thought. It’s the serene voice belonging to none other than Chang’e herself. It flits above her with all its mockery. “I suppose Chinghis really did a number on you. It’s nigh impossible to turn you into a Kyonshī now.”

Another voice, accompanied by clacking footsteps, enters the proximity. “Save it, Sūmi. Let her die with some dignity.” The same sultry, apathetic voice that had previously called Chang’e, or Sūmi, she doesn’t know anymore, a lazy troll; it is the brunette. “I’ll take it from here.” The sonorous giggles grow distant as the clacking approaches. It stops to her right. Then, a sigh; deep and heartfelt. “Again, sorry for this mess,” she initiates, accompanied by the sound of scratching and something hitting the floor. The voice is closer to her, as if the woman decided to sit down next to her. “You just picked the wrong crowd to infiltrate, ya know? This place isn’t what it seems to be.” She pauses and moves some body part. The fabric of her clothing drags against the tiny pebbles on the floor.

“But you’re gonna die now, so I don’t really… I don’t really need to explain this to you.” The woman moves a bit more, her sighs growing more inaudible. “You look like shit and you’re gonna be in pain if this keeps up.” That is odd, what the woman is saying. Fyora is not really in pain. Not anymore. But she feels trapped. She wants to be free from her own body. “A quick death is the best gift I can give you.” Something pushes her body along the floor, causing it to skid backwards. There is a slight sting, quite dissimilar from the aching this spell had induced on her.

Her eyes are forced open, as her head, apparently, falls to the side. A pure white, robed silhouette with golden hair and magnificent wings stands next to the open door, hovering. The flaxen hair obscures the face, sans the mouth, which is curved into an angelic smile. “''Heaven. Heaven’s door is knocking''.” The figure floats towards the table.

Then, everything flashes orange.

End Chapter.