Total Word Count: 32,341

Tap.

Rhoa flinched.

Tap.

Tap.

She drew in a short, sharp breath. The sound echoed faintly, and she opened her eyes.

Then she blinked.

Nothing. She couldn't see a thing, only thick, unyielding darkness.

For a moment she thought she must have gone blind. Although, she remembered falling. Maybe she was dead?

Tap.

Something splashed on her right hand. It was cold, colder than she was. She lifted her arm, bringing her hand to her lips. She was able to move, at least, and it was water on her fingers. She was thirsty. Calmly, she put her hand back down where it had been and caught the next few drops in her palm. It tasted of dirt, but it was wet.

She took a breath and began cataloguing facts. She wasn't dead. She wasn't infected with the Rot, either. The tower must have collapsed when the monster broke free, and she had fallen with it. She was alive, lying on her back in the dark, it was cold and smelled of mortar dust, there were large stones and what felt like gravel beneath her, and water was dripping from somewhere overhead.

She flexed her fingers. Then her toes.

Her left foot didn't respond as quickly as it should, and she hissed out a curse as a harsh stab of pain shot up her leg when she shifted her knee. There was resistance; something was keeping her from moving, something that grated against bone and yanked at muscle and sinew.

Grinding her teeth, she pushed herself upright and felt along her leg, wincing when her fingers found a piece of metal sticking out of her skin a few inches below the bend of her knee. A few more seconds of exploration told her the metal speared out of the rocks under her, entered her calf, and came out the other side.

Sitting up brought another discovery: her head was spinning. There was a nasty knot at the back of her skull, and her neck, shoulders, ribs, and spine all ached.

Suddenly exhausted beyond reason, she sank back down, darkness of a different sort stealing her away.

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Time passed. It must have. It was impossible to know exactly how much, when she could barely stay awake longer than a few minutes. It could have been hours, it could have been days.

The second time she came to, she tried feeling around to get a better idea of where she was. As far as she could tell, she seemed to be in a sort of pocket made by the curve of the iron tower stairs – a length of which was now impaling her lower leg. If she reached up above her head, her groping fingers found the edge of the steps, the grating unmistakable even in the dark.

When she tried to dig her leg free, however, the pain was so great she passed out again.

Hunger woke her the third time. She thought about screaming, but who would come? What had happened to everyone else when the monster got loose? Why had it saved her from the Rot only to let her fall?

She lay still, staring up at nothing, thinking it would have been better to just die and get it over with. It would have hurt less.

A sound brought her back to reality the fourth time. She opened her eyes, not entirely sure what had woken her.

Clang

Her heartbeat kicked over in her chest and she lifted her head, listening intently.

Perhaps it was a rock falling on the metal of the stairs —

Clang clang clang

It was too exact and rhythmic, like someone hitting an anvil with a hammer.

Her voice tore from her throat. "Here!" She tried again, louder. "I'm here!" Her hand shook as she grabbed a stone and lifted it, swinging in the direction of the steps. Once. Twice. Finally, it connected, and her own metalic clang echoed in response.

A long, breathless pause followed.

Then:

Clang clang clang

Rhoa let out a sob, summoned a last surge of energy, and swung at the stair tread again. Clang, clang, clang. Her strength failed, and her hand dropped to her side, her fingers releasing the stone. She closed her eyes, only half-aware that she was drifting off.

The responding strike of metal on metal didn't rouse her. Nor did the patter and rasp of gravel and rocks shifting, or a ragged voice calling her name. As if from a great distance, she registered strong arms around her, lifting her. Then there was only oblivion.

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Hot. Too hot. Burning. So thirsty —

Fingers cradled the back of her head, followed by the brush of something cool and smooth at her chin, and then wonderful cold water trickled over her lower lip.

Rhoa opened her mouth and brought her hands up, grasping first at the bottom of what seemed to be a horn cup, then at the arm of the person holding it. She drank, coughing and gulping, unable to stop.

"Easy, easy," a man said quietly. "Take your time. There's more."

She opened bleary, feverish eyes, dimly registering a broad-shouldered figure looming over her in the light of a fire. Then the sleeping drought in the water sent her spiraling down into the dark again.

°°°°°ººººº°°°°°

Sunlight woke her, subtle and warm on her face.

Rhoa opened her eyes.

She was lying on her back, propped up on a mound of pillows. The vaulted ceiling of the sickroom swam into focus.

There was a sweetness to the air that hadn't been there in a long time. She inhaled. Tettony's spring lilies were blooming.

She narrowed her eyes. This must be another dream, although it certainly was quite pleasant. She looked around.

Across the room, the towering diamond-pane windows stood wide open, and a light breeze whispered through the gauzy summer curtains.

To her left, the other cots were empty.

She turned to her right, and went still, her lips parting.

The Vanguard sat slouched in a chair beside her, his head bowed, his arms crossed over his chest.

He was sleeping. He looked like he hadn't slept much recently – the lines of his face were careworn beneath his beard. Something told her he had been in that chair for quite a while.

She swallowed, a blush creeping over her cheeks. Several dim, confusing memories flickered to life, all of him: gentle hands changing the bandage on her leg, soothing her overheated skin with cold cloths, holding a cup of water to her lips. That rich, velvety voice calling her name, urging her to drink, offering her a lifeline as she stumbled through feverish nightmares.

Her gaze fell to the thick muscles visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, tracing the gleam of copper among the blue-black of his tattoos. She knew the power those coppery lines could wield, now.

With a soft breath, the Vanguard stirred, waking, his eyes opening as he brought his head up.

Rhoa glanced away quickly, her blush deepening when he moved, leaning forward to get a better look at her. Then he reached out and placed his hand on her forehead, checking her temperature.

Surprised, she blinked up at him.

He lowered his hand, then let out a short laugh of relief, white teeth flashing in a broad smile. His smile faded as he met her eyes, though, and he went still, staring at her. His brows drew together slightly. He swallowed, his gaze traveling her features. Ever so carefully, he reached up and brushed a strand of her hair away from her face. "It's good to see you again, Keeper's Daughter."

Her heart skipped a long, aching beat. She couldn't do it. The weight of what she had done sat in her chest like a lump of rancid meat, and she ducked her head, unable to look at him. "I didn't let the monster go." The words tore out of her, and she didn't try to stop them. "I poisoned it."

He went sill.

"There was Rot on my glove and it got in the jar," she went on, "I was so afraid of what might happen if I didn't poison the monster that I used the poison anyway."

For a moment, he was quiet. Then he sat back. "And... I'm supposed to be angry?"

"I broke my promise," she whispered.

"You were doing what you thought was right. I could never fault you for that when I have been forgiven for much worse."

Her gaze finally collided with his. There was no judgment there. No suspicion, no disappointment, only the warmth of understanding.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-grin and he straightened, getting to his feet. "Your brother will be glad to know you're awake."

"Phane is well?"

The Vanguard nodded, dark eyes warm. "Yes. So is your grandmother." He turned to go.

"Kryphan?" His name slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it, rolling off her tongue as easily as if she had been saying it for years.

He came to a halt in the doorway. For a split-second, he didn't move, his head bowed, his hand on the door frame. Then he looked at her.

"What happened? When the monster got loose?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "It burned away the Rot."

When he didn't elaborate, Rhoa bit her lower lip, another, bigger question tangling in her throat. A question she was too afraid to know the answer to.

"I'll go get your brother," the Vanguard said after a moment.

"Kry?" Rhoa called, bringing him to a stop again on the landing. She still couldn't bring herself to ask the question dogging her, though. Her voice broke as she said, simply, "Thank you."

He was silent for several seconds before she heard a low, "You're welcome." Then his footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Rhoa let out a breath, then closed her eyes and collapsed back on her pillows.

How many people had died?

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