The blood came out in spurts from his wrist. Cutter staggered back, pressing down on the wound as hard as he could to stem the flow. Still the wound wept down his hand, red and freely. He staggered back. Worse wounds had been inflicted upon him during his campaign on the Arklay, where a beast with spear-like proboscis had once impaled his stomach. It was a miracle that he lived to see tomorrow. Anything felt surmountable after that brush with death: the mountains, its beast, with a little grit Cutter could battle through any strife in his way. And he did. He returned from those mountains as a champion of the empire. A whole new territory was carved from the conquest. Compared to the blood and bodies yielded on its slopes, the slash on his wrist was nothing.

This fear, however, was taller than those jagged mountains. It soared into the clouds. And atop its perch was an unconquerable monster. Pyrik giggled as she approached him, slowly like a wolf about to seize its prey. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Cutter stumbled to the ground. Animal instinct galvanized his body to move, to crawl, do anything but stay still. He was a puppet clipped from its string. Any remaining fight in him was mixing with the earth. The saber might as well be a league away.

Pyrik loomed over him with too much grin and too wide eyes. It sowed a fear that instantly bloomed in Cutter’s chest, yet it stunted when he felt a moist droplet land on his face. It was tears. She was crying too. “I applaud you. I truly do. You’re like a thorn in a hoof, with your black powder toys and the substance you laced on your steel. But you fail to realize the potential of this body. It is annihilation made flesh and blood. That,”—it gestured to the fire on the red forest—“was only a fraction of the power that she possesses.”

“What… what are you?” Cutter asked.

“I am her, and she is me. Once relegated to the shadows but now I am free. She is a fool to think that I can be sequestered, leashed like a dog. I was always destined to roam free.”

A muddled mind made it hard to think yet Cutter pushed a thought through. “You and her are not the same.”

“No?”

“People tend to think that a fraction of their personality defines them, however, it is the sum total of everything that makes them who they are. You are the joys and the sadness and all that entails with life. So, Pyrik, and I know that you’re listening, this thing is not you. A part of you, certainly, but not all. You are the one in control, not this other consciousness. I know this is not you. Please… please stop...”

Cutter struggled to wrangle a coherent thought. A desolate temptation was calling him to that eternal sleep. It pulled on his eyelids, it pooled in the ground. He was growing cold. The coarse sensation of dirt felt faint against his fingertips. Pyrik towered like a monolith, her claws dangled at her sides. All it took was a decisive slash and he would get shuttled away from this mortal body. He blinked, staring at Pyrik expectantly. She was standing in place. A clash of two consciousnesses fought for control as her body shook. However, that control was quicking waning. A hand was slowly winding up. A boot was dragged in front of the other. The tears were running down her cheeks.

Expecting only one outcome, Cutter was about to close his eyes when an arrow struck Pyrik in her chest and pitched back a few steps. Pyrik went to pull out the arrow, but she recoiled her hand when it was shot, this time with a flintlock pistol.

“Get away from him!” Ira yelled as she lept from a rooftop and landed on Pyrik.

The amount of paralytic coursing through Pyrik should have lent Ira an edge. With many more limbs than the girl the contest should have obviously skewed to one side. It should have been as easy as grappling a stiff, wooden doll to the ground. Pyrik grabbed hold of Ira’s right arm, yanked as effortlessly as plucking the wings from a dragonfly, and the arm came free with a sickening pop from the socket.

Cutter groaned as he tried to crawl toward Ira.

Ira howled, a wounded animal, however, with her remaining arm she took hold of the arrow and with gritted teeth drove it through the brigandine, burrowing into Pyrik’s chest.

Savage as a rabid dog the girl thrashed against the arrowhead plunging to her heart. That dreadful sleep was coming, the relinquishing of control. It could feel the cains slowly enclosing it in bondage. Mustering the last of its strength, it punched a hole through Ira’s heart.

“No!” Cutter screamed. A renewed vigor possessed him and crawled faster toward Ira.

It sneered, satisfied at the fatal blow it dealt. Blood spurted from Ira’s mouth and her face visibly slackened, the fading of a life. And yet the sneer slipped away from its face as it felt the arrowhead continue on its course. Ira managed a small, weak smile. The paralytic-tipped arrowhead plunged into Pyrik’s heart and the monster was thrown back to the darkness. The girl was finally asleep.

“Ira! Ira!” Cutter shouted as he crawled the rest of the way to her.

Ira turned to Cutter. “Please, honour your promise. Find my baby a new home,” she said. Then she slumped over.

Cutter tried to wake her up, keep her conscious until a medic could come to check on her, however, the blood loss had finally gotten to him. His body was betraying all commands. His mind was growing fuzzy. It was like getting pulled into a fog where all coherence was lost. Thoughts burst and popped, then stalled to molasse. A sort of sleep sucked him in. The world started to fade away. The last thing he remembered was Ira lying dead on Pyrik and the taste of dirt in his mouth. Then everything went dark.