Garth smiled as he took a sip of the Good Lady's tea. She'd made it using extracts from the various plants that grew in this chamber -- giving it a distinct green colouration and a strange, almost spicy stench.

It was rancid, of course, as the Good Lady was not a talented child. Still, it had been earnestly brewed with love, so Garth continued to drink the stuff.

The Good Lady was the ruler of Coren, and by extension the rest of the world -- at least on paper. Due to her youthful thirteen years, it had been decided that Garth would act as her regent until she was sufficiently mature enough to handle her expected duties.

It was up to Garth when exactly that was -- but he had no intention of duplicity. So long as he was assured that she would act in the best interests of the people, he would gladly hand over the rights to governance when the time came. But not a second earlier.

"Are you enjoying your tea, Prester?" the Good Lady asked, happily gulping down the swill. The two of them were sitting at a table out on the balcony, the entirety of Coren spread out before them.

"Of course," Garth smiled, turning his head to take in the view.

The city was beautiful at night, the torchlight below making it a gorgeous mirror of the abyssal sky above. Even if Garth had not been visiting the Good Lady, he likely would have come out to see the view anyway.

Lies are the territory of man, he'd said -- and nowhere was that more true than Coren. Everything they had, everything they'd gained, had been bought with lies. No matter what it took, they would not lose what they had.

"Are you okay, Prester?" the Good Lady frowned, cocking her head. "You seem distracted."

"Distracted?" Garth put his cup of tea down on the table with a clink as he leaned back in his too-small chair. "Yes, yes, I suppose I must be. Every day is busy when you're juggling responsibilities. Governance and Regulation and faith are very different duties, but they must be managed equally."

In truth, he could handle those jobs without complaint. What had him distracted right now was the fact that one of his prisoners was in the middle of escaping. As one who came from outside the world, that boy's very existence was corrosive to public happiness.

He was useful, but not invaluable. If he couldn't be recovered, he must be killed.

Surely Aka Manto understood that too.

"Can't you, um, delegate?" the Good Lady asked innocently. So very precocious.

Garth steepled his fingers on the desk in front of him. "Delegation is one of the great innovations of mankind," he nodded. "But sometimes there are matters too important to leave to others. Sometimes, you can only trust that a job has been done well if you are the one to have done it. For example, would you have someone else -- a servant, let's say -- take care of your flowers?"

The Good Lady put a finger to her chin. "I guess not."

"And why is that, precisely?"

"They might do a bad job. They don't know about my plants as much as I do. They wouldn't be able to do it properly."

Garth smiled. "Exactly. Just like you with your garden, I have to be sure to properly take care of the people and make sure their needs are fulfilled. It's a thankless task, but one that must be done -- by me right now, but someday by you."

The Good Lady paled, just a little, at that. Responsibility was a cold weight indeed.

Dragan's scream was swallowed by the wind.

He clung to Ruth's back as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, from ledge to ledge, the entire architecture of the city seemingly building up to this -- an obstacle course for the girl to rampage through. Every time her feet came down on the roof tiles, Dragan expected her to slip and send the two of them plummeting to their demise.

It was strange. The buildings on Taldan had been immeasurably taller than the stone towers here, but he got much more of a sense of height from them.

Perhaps it was because he could see the ground: back on Taldan, falling to your death had been a theoretical thing, something that would eventually happen after a long, long period of falling. Here, though, you could very much see the ending coming.

Stone against bone, a wet crack, and then nothing -- if you were lucky. If you were unlucky, you got to bleed to death instead as a puddle on the floor.

"You okay back there?" Ruth called out, her glowing-red hair whipping back into Dragan's face.

"Just -- just fine," Dragan growled, spitting out the ponytail. "Nothing but positive thoughts here!"

"Don't be an asshole!" Ruth shouted back, executing a truly horrifying leap over a gap between two buildings, her feet barely making the landing on the other side.

She paused for a moment to catch her breath.

"I'll stop being an asshole when you stop running like an asshole," Dragan grumbled, doing his best not to look down. "Is there actually a destination to this, or are we just running around for fun?"

Hands on her hips, Ruth let Dragan down off her back -- and once he was free, she pointed at the massive cathedral off in the distance. "Y'see that?"

"Of course."

"We're moving away from it. That good enough for you? I'm the one who has to go back there, anyway."

Dragan brushed some of the stone dust off his clothes -- the black cloak he was wearing still seemed a little strange, but he has to admit he quite liked the look. Maybe he'd get himself a cloak of his own after all this was over.

Wait, what had she said?

"What do you mean you have to go back?" he said, looking up from his dusty cloak.

Ruth shuffled for a moment, then sighed as she scratched the back of her head. It was like she was realizing how absurd the words were even as they were leaving her mouth. "I kinda promised I'd kill a guy in exchange for help finding you," she said. "So, uh, I gotta go back and kill him."

Dragan blinked. "So what? Just don't do it. Let's get out of here."

"But I promised."

"And? Promises are easy to break -- I break them all the time. Besides, if you wanted to kill this guy -- whoever he is -- you should have done it while we were there. Once they find out that I've escaped, they'll ramp up security. You won't be able to get this guy."

Ruth winced. Clearly, she knew that Dragan was right, but she didn't want to admit it. "I had to get you outta there first," she mumbled. "Besides, if I get back there fast, I can do what I need to before they find out you're gone. Just… just stay here. I'll be back soon, okay?"

She didn't leave any time for Dragan to argue further -- before he could even open his mouth, she'd turned back around and crouched low, ready to leap back the way she'd came --

-- only to stop when a throwing knife struck the ground in front of her, flying with such force that it ended up buried to the hilt in the stone roof.

Oh shit.

"Two paths lie before you," intoned a voice from above -- tinny, as if it were prerecorded. "A path of blue, and a path of red."

Dragan looked up.

Floating there, silhouetted by the pale blue moon, was the spectre. It's red-and-blue cloak billowed around it in the wind, spread out like the wings of a great bird. One arm, wrapped in crimson bandages, protruded from the robe -- and clutched between it's knuckles were more throwing knives, glinting with deadly promise.

"The hell…?" Ruth muttered.

As the two of them watched, transfixed, a second arm worked its way out from beneath the cloak. This one was wrapped in sodden blue bandages, and in its hand was clutched a long, curved dagger -- sharp enough and vicious enough to tear through a human carcass with ease.

It elaborated.

"The path of blue," it said. "Is to have the life choked from your body with unkind, unclean hands. The path of red is to be crucified upon the stones and left to watch the morning sun. Which do you choose? Blue, or red? Red, or blue?"

"They both sound so enticing," Dragan muttered, eyes flicking around for escape routes.

Apart from jumping to their doom, the only paths of movement available were running along more rooftops -- and given that this thing could clearly fly, that wasn't going to be of much help.

He looked back to Ruth. "This is the thing I told you about -- the guard. It's come after us."

Unlike Dragan, Ruth's eyes hadn't left their adversary for even a moment. Her Skeletal claws were bared and her body was low to the ground, ready to move in any direction the instant it became necessary. Her red hair glowed like a torch behind her, bathing the rooftop in sheer light.

Seeing as they were the technicolour duo, sneaking away wasn't much of an option either -- which left fighting their way out as the only path open to them.

"Which do you choose?" the spectre asked again, arms shaking in fury. "Blue, or red? Red, or blue?" It obviously wasn't going to ask again.

This behaviour seemed automatic, compulsive -- as if some underlying programming was doing its best to stop the creature from attacking until it received an answer, or until it became obvious that an answer wasn't coming. Did that mean the spectre would also be compelled to carry out the action they selected?

If that was the case, then...

"Blue!" Dragan blurted out. Ruth finally glanced away from the spectre, looking at him as if he were insane. Perhaps he was.

The way he saw it, they were best off selecting the option that gave them the best chance of victory. Given its obvious strength, the spectre could feasibly use those throwing knives to carry out a crucifixion from range, whereas it would have to come into close proximity in order to strangle them. If it did that, it opened itself up to attacks from Ruth.

That was assuming Ruth would be able to do anything against it, though. Perhaps he should have thought about this for a few seconds more.

The spectre's diamond eyes glared down at Dragan, like a king regarding an insect. "You have chosen the path of blue," it said. "So be it."

It seemed they were locked into the strategy. Now, when it tried to rush him, Ruth could intercept it based on its trajectory and --

-- and there were hands wrapped around his throat --

-- and there was a bone-white mask inches from his face --

-- and his body had been sent flying backwards smashing against a brick wall.

The spectre had moved with incomprehensible, horrifying speed, it's body sparking with coils of red and blue Aether as it strangled Dragan. Ruth whirled around, already running towards the two of them -- even with her skills, though, she'd only realized what had happened after the fact.

His own blue Aether running through his body, Dragan did his best to pry the bandaged hands off his throat -- but their grip was like twin vices, and the spectre refused to let go. Its spiteful gaze drilled right into Dragan's skull. Dimly, Dragan heard a kind of choking sound -- only to realize seconds later that it was coming from his own mouth. Would Ruth arrive in time to free him? It didn't seem likely.

Dragan's vision grew dark. This whole thing brought back memories…

Familial hands wrapped around his throat.

The weak hands of a child beating uselessly against the arms of an adult.

"If only you didn't exist. If only you'd never been born..."

Suddenly, the pressure on Dragan's neck ceased, and his lungs were able to take in a greedy gulp of oxygen. He fell to his knees, hands massaging his aching throat as he hacked up saliva on the ground. That had been death. Even with everything he'd learnt, that had been seconds from death.

Ruth stood in front of him protectively, facing off with the floating spectre -- it had moved to a distance again, hovering over the gap between buildings. If nothing else, it had good battle sense: Ruth couldn't exactly attack it if she had nothing to stand on.

"You alright?" Ruth growled, not turning away from her enemy for a second.

"Been better," wheezed Dragan, stumbling to his feet on shaky legs. "Bastard's got a grip…"

Ruth opened her mouth to say something more, but was interrupted once more by the spectre. This time, it addressed her directly, it's gaze unbreaking.

"Two paths lie before you," it said, bandaged legs dangling freely over empty air. "A path of blue, and a path of red. The path of blue is to have your lungs pulled up through your mouth, and to feel their gristle on your teeth. The path of red is to have your stomach sliced open and your ribs spread apart in reverence. Which do you choose? Blue, or red? Red, or blue?"

"What, it's my turn now?" Ruth muttered, sharpening her claws together.

Dragan watched the spectre carefully as it spoke, a plan quickly beginning to congeal in his mind.

This thing seemed able to concentrate on only one target at a time. At first, that target had been Dragan -- hence that first red-and-blue spiel being directed at him -- but once Ruth had attacked it, she had become the new target. Most likely, the spectre was intended to hunt down single targets only, rather than fighting a group.

They could exploit that. They could win this.

"Ruth," Dragan whispered. "Trust me. Pick blue."

Ruth glanced over at him for a moment, brow furrowed in doubt, before sighing and opening her mouth.

"Red," she said.