The book was a sort of mental buffer against the witch's final words: a strong glass case that let her see what it meant but not feel the impact herself. Acid against the glass. A viper's final poisonous spit masked as something sweet. Kind? This thing did not know the meaning of the word. Stormy hadn't wanted to fight in the first place, and yet it had pricked and prodded and goaded her . . . And she'd fell for it.

The realization of what she'd just commited hit her a few seconds after the greatsword thudded against the stump, around the same time the student dissipated. Violence. There was no blood, God be praised, but it did not make the situation any less difficult to process; something pink had spewed out just before the witch had disappeared anyway. Pink blood. Was that poisonous sugar too?

Stormy felt sick. Her stomach flipped and she felt herself break into a light sheen of sweat.

Thane could not be more opposite: all satisfied rumbles and vicious snaps of victory, a rare moment in which he basked the hunter with praise. < moxt kepesk. Remember this moment as one in which you steeled yourself against your foe. > >

Little Storm. That was the closest to affection she'd ever heard in his voice. And yet they were oddly hollow words, something they both knew without needing to say: a victory, yes, but not one gotten on skill. The witch hadn't fought until the very end when there was too much of a difference for its attempts to matter. But Thane was trying a different approach to his usual criticism: feeding his hunter little crumbs to lead her on her way.

She ate them up and chose ignorance as to his intentions. It was too much for her to fight when now she felt drained and heavy--physically, emotionally, mentally.

Pyrrhic victory, Stormy thought wearily as she stared at the spot where the student had lain. I can't . . . I shouldn't do that again.

The good humor left her partner and had her shivering.

< < You will be prepared to, or it will be your undoing. A moment of weakness is all it takes. > >

I am not useless or weak.

< < Words. > > His spine cracked. < < Words are weak puffs of air. Let your actions define you. Prove you are not. Because you are very weak, Hatchling, very fleshy and vulnerable; that much even it saw. How would you fare against something far more dangerous? > >

Badly. Her shoulder sank. She wanted to throw up.

< < Our business is concluded. Let us leave that you may ruminate on the event, as you are wont. You are, after all, an expert at leading yourself in mental circles, > > he drawled.

She was very terribly cold and very terribly tired. Her shaking hand barely felt the pendant hidden under her layers of clothes, and her ears barely heard her own hoarse voice whisper, "Deus ex Machina."

There was a tug in her stomach, and then the clearing was truly empty.