In the quiet of the barren field upon the shore of Craorag, the fire flickered against the setting sun, a glow illuminating the tents arranged haphazardly. The smell of dirty smoke and of burning food lifted high into the air, over the orange and charcoal sky, sending tendrils of smoke over to the foreign, distant, land of the common people. Evora's hair was matted, straggly and dirty, her gaze unfocused as she stared from beyond the campsite.

There had been no deaths on her hand, yet it was the solace which she had forgotten, which had plagued her, waiting in the shadows for her. Over at the camp, she was sure that in the secluded, large, tent, lay the leaders of this, the leaders who put her at the mercy of the Trials. They would be plotting, surely, but for whose side she did not know.

The feeling of not knowing was something that had been plaguing Evora for the duration of the fight. Back in Lirima, it was organized, monotonous even. Evora knew everything that was needed, and everything that was not. And yet here, where these people who were so changeable, she knew nothing. These people, they were evil yet good, masterminds yet naïve like her. Elsinor, too, they were the one who first brought about the thought of deceit. She could hear their voice, it carried over to her ears; they were laughing and talking with excitement and laughter. Was it fake? Were they playing the others like they had played her at one time?

The thoughts, though, did not deter her from why she was there, sitting upon the dusty, sandy, ground, in a land unknown to her, watching those she did not know and who would have killed her the previous day. In another land, far from there, there was surely a war. She knew not officially, but there was more to her than simply her magic, unlike what she thought herself.

Over in the distant lands, surely war was happening, where people fought and died for no other reason than the governments declared so. In Lirima, no one fought but for their own food. War was not something Evora had been exposed to. In Lirima, all there ever was was the serenity of the forest, of her mother's calming word's when she was still a teenager, of the man's monthly visits full of joy as love defied expectations. Evora was not a girl suited for war.

Still, the people had told her that this war must be fought, they had told her on their journey to Craorag that they must all be prepared to defend those who wished to bring death and instability to the land once more. There was no talk of peace, no talk of calm, only of the battle that must be won.

Evora never wanted to fight, she had to tell herself. Her hands, dusty, dug into the ground as she tried to control the emotions she was feeling. Her head needed to remain clear, yet there was the feeling in her mind that none of this was fair. She never asked for this, to be thrust into this battle that she had nothing to do with. She was close to freedom, and now she feared she may never embrace her mother again.

While the others hid away—the politicians and leaders and gods who spoke nothing of negotiation—there she was, feet on soil she was forced upon, people so unlike her. Earlier in the afternoon, Evora had been told by Elsinor that the Guardians had wished for the two of them to plan a strategy; a duo where they would lead in stealth. 'They told me we were all pieces, and of course one cannot win this game if the pieces aren't aligned, my dear,' Elsinor had said, casually, as though it had been a quick decision to think about and they now felt the fight was justified. She had felt hurt, betrayed by their sudden change.

'You surely understand,' she had said, 'that nothing in this mortal world is played to the best hand. Not one can predict the best move, for when the opponent strikes, you are well exposed, even when you have made the last move. Foolish, really, I just want to be home.'

Elsinor had been exasperated, then. 'We all want to be home, Evora, but there is simply no way to do that at this moment. I believed you more intelligent than to believe that in this time of turmoil we would simply lay down in defeat. You have survived this long (with my help sure), and you have lived, so do not be cowardly at this last battle. Think of it solely as the final fight.'

'I did not agree to being placed in the Trials, nor did I agree to be in charge of the slaughtering or battle of innocents, no matter their status to you.' Evora had turned on her heel then, retreating back to her cabin. Elsinor and Evora had not spoken since, but she was sure there was to be a reconciliation, once she collected her thoughts.

The sun dimmed, it dipped below the horizon. Night descended. The fire, burning bright in the shadows, shot crackling embers into the air. If only she could stay out in this wild stretch, forever, not worried about the danger and death that lurked at every corner, knocking at the doors of unsuspecting people. In the sky, Evora prayed there to be someone looking down upon her, listening to her pleas.

Everyone will someday die. Everyone, Evora hoped, from the highest to the lowest, would be equal in death, if only that their equality came in mortality. And one day, Evora hoped, the people who tore her world apart and began this war, would one day meet the heavens begging for forgiveness.