The room was dark and cold, bitterly cold. There was an unseen tension lurking inside. A young woman stood before the dark figure, glaring at him, hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white as other men freed her wrists from the ropes. The dark figure held a knife, his scarlet gaze reflecting off of the clean, sharp silver.

"You ready, Child?"

She growled. "Is that a question?"

"You haven't chosen a weapon. Surely you aren't that stupid. You couldn't even face me in your mind."

She growled again. "I choose to fight with the dagger then." She gripped the handle.

"Surely you could have chosen a stronger weapon." He said mockingly, a singsong lilt in his voice.

"Sylvia, you can't do this," Luke pleaded. "I can't let you die." Tears rolled down his ashen face, tears of terror and agony and fury.

"Luke, it's my turn. You saved me. It's my turn to save you." Sylvia's voice was soft, full of love, sincere.

"Alright, Sweetling..." Fallen started. "Dance with me."