Zalish had been desperate. More desperate than she had ever been in her life. The realization that she was indeed a murderer, a child killer, had struck her harder than any physical hit could have. It didn't matter that it was unintentional. Death was death. Her head and her heart ached with the onslaught of memories.

She wasn’t lying when she told Athula that she would do anything to have it all go away. He wanted her mind? He could have it. Her body? It was his. Her suffering? There was plenty of that to go around.

And so when she woke from the drakoen’s stupor, her head still filled with the sound of her sister choking as her soul was pulled out of her, Zalish decided just how she would pay her tithe. When she touched the drakoen’s burned hands, words began to ring in her head.

For the first time in a while, everything was clear.

Your breath will not pass the rising of the sun. Fair well in the city of trees, and you might live to see what will become of the world you so willingly betrayed.

It was a farewell. The Gods’ message, Athula’s message, it wasn’t for the druid. It was meant for her.

She was meant to die. She was always meant to die.

And so she did. Zalish’s fingers interlocked with the drakoen’s as she pulled its talons to her neck. She wasn’t scared this time, for she knew who would await her on the otherside. She knew that this tithe would be enough to grant her a little peace.

She gurgled, her instincts urging her plug up the jagged holes steadily leaking blood down her throat. Then she fell, the blurry world fading from view, her sister’s giggles tickling her ears.