When Clive woke again, canvas stretched overhead. The tent's fabric glowed amber from lantern light. His chest still hurt badly, like someone had packed it with hot coals.

  A weight shifted beside him. Lucia jerked upright, her hair escaping its usual neat braid. Dark circles shadowed her eyes.

  "You're awake." She fumbled for something on the ground. Glass clinked. "Don't move."

  "Wasn't planning on it." Each word scraped out rough and painful, accompanied by a hacking cough.

  She uncorked a vial and slid her hand behind his head, lifting it slightly. The movement sent fresh agony lancing through his chest. "Drink."

  The potion tasted of cherry, pepper and vanilia. It was well-balanced with good expression of primary, secondary and teritary flavours. Even with his limited experience, he could tell this was no ordinary potion.

  He managed two swallows before the coughing intensified. The spasm tore through his wound, which made everything hurt worse.

  "All of it." Lucia's fingers tightened in his hair, holding him steady. "Come on, Clive. All of it."

  He forced down the rest. The moment the vial left his lips, she was already uncorking another.

  "Another?"

  "Three more after this." She brought the second potion to his lips. "Don't argue."

  "Lucia—" He turned his head away. "You're wasting the good stuff on me."

  "The good stuff?" Her laugh was brittle. "That's what you're worried about? Potion economy?"

  "Those are Greater Healing Potions… They're—"

  "Ultimate Healing potion actually. They’re expensive, rare, but not worth more than a pictomancer's life." She grabbed his jaw, forcing him to face her. "So drink it, Clive. Or I'll pour it down your throat myself."

  He drank.

  The third potion went down easier. By the fourth, the fire in his chest had dulled to a persistent ache. Lucia set the last empty vial aside with the others, then stayed there—perched on the edge of whatever he was lying on, her hand still cradling his head.

  "Can you lower me now?"

  "Oh." She eased him back down carefully. "Sorry."

  Clive stared up at the tent's peak. A moth circled the lantern. "How long was I out?"

  "Six hours. Maybe seven." Lucia wiped her hands on her already-stained dress. "The Grand General wanted to keep moving—to press their advantage—but Prince Sion insisted we make camp. Give you time to stabilize."

  "They're still here?"

  "Most of the force moved on. There's a rear guard staying with us until you can travel." She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Guma thinks another day, maybe two."

  Silence settled between them. The moth kept its vigil around the light.

  "Everything began when I brought you to Marblehaven." Lucia lowered her voice. "In a way, I feel responsible."

  Clive turned his head to look at her. "That's stupid."

  "Is it?" She met his eyes. "I'm the one who asked for your help. Who put you on that road. If only I didn’t… You would still be out there. A travelling artist, away from all this mess. Safe."

  "I still am a travelling artist. And besides, all of Marblehaven would have turned to stone if you hadn’t found me."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  "Better that than you with a hole through your chest."

  "Lucia—"

  "She almost killed you, Clive." Her hands twisted together in her lap. "That moonlight blade went straight through. I saw it. I saw you fall and I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I thought I'd gotten you killed."

  Clive started to protest, but she was already shaking her head, cutting him off before he could finish. "I know what you're going to say. And I don't want to hear it."

  The tent flap rustled in the wind outside. Voices drifted past—guards changing watch, probably. For a while, neither of them spoke.

  "You know what I was thinking about?" Clive asked. "Right before I passed out?"

  She didn't answer, but she didn't tell him to stop either.

  "That I needed to go after her." He stared at the canvas overhead. "Even with my chest torn open, even bleeding out, all I could think was that I had to follow her. Had to... I don't know. Talk to her. Understand why."

  "Why she tried to kill you?"

  "Maybe." He closed his eyes. "Or why she said 'we're going home now' while doing it. Like killing me was... I don't know. A mercy? A reunion?"

  Lucia was quiet.

  "Or maybe she blames me," he continued. "For choosing art over her. For ending up here instead of wherever she thought we'd go. Maybe she thinks dragging me to the afterlife will fix everything."

  "That's not fixing. That's murder."

  "Is it murder if she thinks she's saving me? She always worried I'd get too lost. Maybe in her mind, this world is just another painting I'm disappearing into. And she's trying to pull me back. The only way she knows how."

  "By stabbing you through the chest?" Lucia threw her hands in exasperation. “That’s not how we save people here.”

  Clive opened his eyes, staring at nothing. Up above, the moth finally landed on the lantern's glass.

  “I know,” he finally admitted. “Doesn’t stop me from wishing it meant something different.”

  Lucia was quiet for a long moment. Then she stood. "I should tell the others you're awake. Prince Sion wanted to know the moment you regained consciousness."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know." She moved toward the tent flap, then paused. "Will you be alright? If I leave for a few minutes?"

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "That's not what I asked."

  He looked at her. She stood backlit by the lantern, her shadow stretching across the tent floor. Her hair was still escaping its braid. She looked exhausted.

  "I'll be fine," he said.

  She didn't look convinced, but she nodded anyway. "Don't try to sit up. Don't try to stand. Don't do anything except lie there and breathe. Understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "I'm serious, Clive."

  "I know."

  She lingered another moment, then slipped through the tent flap into the night.

  The sounds of the camp filtered in—low voices, footsteps on packed earth, the crackle of a distant fire. Clive tilted his head, trying to gauge how many people were out there. Dozens, maybe.

  He tested his fingers, flexing them slowly. They responded, though the movement pulled at something deep in his chest. His toes moved too. That was good. Meant the blade hadn't severed his spine.

  Small mercies.

  The moth took flight again, resuming its circuit around the lantern. Round and round, drawn to light that would burn it if it got too close.

  Then it stopped mid-flight.

  The moth hung suspended in the air, wings frozen. The lantern light bent around it, refracting like glass. Clive's breath caught as the insect began to grow—its body lengthening, limbs extending, wings dissolving into strands of shimmering fabric.

  In the span of a heartbeat, a young girl with long blue hair stood where the moth had been. When she blinked, her eyes reflected the lantern flame like a cat's.

  "Clive Weston," she said.

  Pain tore through his chest as Clive lunged for his sword. His hand found the hilt lying beside the bedroll and he raised it between them.

  "Who are you?"

  The girl looked at the sword. Her eyes remained emotionless. "You will lower that."

  "Answer the question."

  She drifted closer. "Certainty did mention this habit of yours. Pointing sharp objects at things you don't understand." She reached out with one finger and tapped the blade's edge. "Why don't you put that away before you hurt yourself? You're already half-dead. The other half would be embarrassing."

  "You know Certainty?" Clive kept the blade up.

  "I have known her since before your species learned language. Though I suppose in your limited mortal framework, we are what you would call frenemies."

  "What do you want?"

  "Observation first." She circled him slowly. "Certainty selects champions with a pattern. The knight died screaming. The architect went mad. You will also break. It is a question of when and how."

  "If you're here to kill me, get it over with."

  "Kill you?" She stopped. "Why would I waste my time on that? You're doing a fine job of dying on your own." Her gaze dropped to his chest, where blood was now staining through the bandages.

  Clive felt a sharp pain in his chest that caused his vision to swim. The sword dipped.

  She caught the blade with her bare hand. The steel passed through her palm like smoke. "Better." She let it fall. " Now we can talk like civilized beings."

  "What do you want?"

  "Want? I wanted many things once." Her voice remained flat. "Now I want nothing. That is what eternity does.

  "Then why are you here?"

  "My name is Miracles," she said. "Goddess of Miracles.

  Clive's hand moved before conscious thought caught up. Wasn’t Miracles the name that Jill mentioned? This person must be up to no good. His fingers found the paint palette beside the bedroll. Red and yellow, mixed quickly on his thumb.

  The fireball took shape in the air between them. Orange flames coalesced from nothing, heat distorting the space around it. He thrusted his palm forward. The fireball shot towards her face.

  The goddess who grants miracles no longer believes in them. This is not irony. This is inevitability.

  — Sayings of the Gods