As the frigid, skeletal hands began to tighten, blocking off her airway, Claire's own hands rose instinctively to free herself from the spectral grasp. She felt the thin, papery skin tearing beneath her nails as she clawed at the hands, trying to get a solid hold. She could smell the coppery tang of blood as it oozed from the wounds she had inflicted and felt the slickness which robbed her of the ability to gain a proper hold on the hands in question.

      The moonlit room began to dim as the hands squeezed and just over her shoulder she swore she saw a woman's face begin to materialize – an expression of pure malice etched into her sharp, icy features.

      Blackness clawed at the edges of her vision, her lungs screamed for air, and Claire felt herself falling but lost consciousness before ever hitting the floor. 

      When she opened her eyes, Claire was back in her bed, her heart racing.

      Had it been a dream?

      Tossing off the blankets, she rose and lit the lamp on the bedside table. With cautious steps she approached the mirror and when she was confident there was nothing amiss about the reflective glass she lifted the dim light and examined her throat.

      To her horror she could see dark purple bruising against the pale skin consistent with fingers determined to choke the life out of her. She took a step back, recalling with vivid clarity the role the mirror had played in her near-death experience.

      Lifting her free hand to her throat, Claire closed her eyes before taking a deep breath. There had to be some logical explanation.

      Right?

      Deciding it was probably best to let the others know what had happened, Claire was halfway to the door when the window behind her burst open with a loud bang. Startled, she nearly dropped the lamp she held in her hand as she swiveled around to face the source of the disturbance.

      Once again the room was set aglow with the silvery light of the moon hanging low and large along the horizon. The curtains fluttered and swayed in a cold breeze that could have very well been to blame for the disturbance had it not been for the gleam of crimson smeared across the window sill and across the glass of one window pane that caught her eye.

      Lowering the lamp, the flickering orange glow fell across a dark, huddled figure and Claire felt her heart begin the slow crawl into her throat.

      "Who are you?" she managed, surprised at how even her voice sounded.

      The slumped over figure said nothing and Claire took a step closer.

      "I can help you, but you have to tell–"

      "Haven't you done enough?"

      The voice came in a low growl, cutting her off and sending her already racing heart to beat faster and harder than ever. She knew that voice, knew it better than she knew herself sometimes.

      "Alek?"

      Without thinking she rushed forward and dropped to her knees beside him. Setting the lamp down she reached out only to have her hands slapped away.

      "Don't touch me," he hissed.

      She looked down to see streaks of crimson where his hand had met hers.

      "You're hurt," she said, reaching again.

      He slapped her hands away again and finally turned to look at her. His face was gaunt, his eyes dark and sunken, his pale skin decorated with blood like some kind of ghastly war paint.

      "Are you stupid?" he hissed.

      "What?"

      He chuckled, an empty sound devoid of mirth or joy. "I've tried to kill you countless-" he coughed, "countless times, yet you still waste your concern on me," another coughing fit, this one lasting several seconds and leaving his lips covered in specks of blood, "I don't need your pity."

      "Then why did you come here?"

      He was silent.

      "I'll tell you why," Claire said, her entire body trembling under the weight of ever shifting emotions. She felt confused and hurt, angry and heartbroken, but mostly just scared that this was how it would all end. That whatever had been done to him had breached the point of no return and she would never get him back again.

      "Please, enlighten me," he muttered.

      "Because somewhere in there is the Alek I love and the one who loves me in return," she replied.

      "You're even stupider than I thought," he grunted, "there is only one Alek and he doesn't-" he grimaced, lifting his hand to his forehead, "he doesn't- argh"

      Claire reached out and pressed both her hands against the side of his face. His skin was so cold to the touch, impossibly frigid. "He?" she pressed, tightening her hold as he tried to pull free. "Don't you mean I?"

      Feeling emboldened, Claire leaned in closer, forcing him to meet her gaze. "I know you're in there Alek," she insisted, searching his eyes for any sign that she was right. "I know you're in there and I know you're fighting and I need you to know that I won't give up on you. I won't-"

      He shoved her away with such force that she lost her hold and fell backwards. She would have ended up sprawled across the floor if the bed hadn't been directly behind her. She watched with wide eyes as Alek seemed to fold in on himself, his arms rising to wrap around his head as he let out a muffled yell.

      Scrambling to her feet, Claire started to approach him again but stopped short, another idea coming to mind. She turned back to the bed and to a small backpack hanging on the post. In it she kept her most valuable possessions. Grabbing the bag she quickly rifled through it and pulled out something small and rounded.

      It was the music box that Alek had given her, the one she had listened to whenever she had missed him. Giving the key a few turns she set it down in the space between them letting the music fill the silence as tears once again filled her eyes.

      As seconds ticked by, Claire watched as he slowly began to uncurl, much like a flower opening for the first rays of morning light. His head turned, his eyes fixing on the music box with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. She could see the struggle, the subtle shift in expression as some internal battle raged within.

      The anger seemed to be abating and she saw flickers of Alek, her Alek, sparking to life in his eyes.

      With slow, tentative movements he reached for the music box. Lifting it up he brought it closer as though to examine its finer details. Claire felt her heart swell with hope, confident she had finally made a breakthrough.

      Until he threw the music box across the room and it smashed into the wall.

      "You think you're clever, you're nothing and you will always be nothing."

      The voice was distorted but clearly feminine and Claire remembered the woman from the airship, the one she had unintentionally summoned while looking for Alek.

      But where had the voice come from?

      Looking around, Claire saw that the mirror had taken on a faint glow. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she approached and saw the fractured, distorted face of a woman staring back at her.

      Eira Tovander.

      "Why are you doing this?" Claire asked, hating the way her voice quivered.

      "I am simply taking what is rightfully mine, surely you can understand such a simple concept," Eira replied.

      "What does that have to do with Alek?"

      "Oh you sweet, innocent child... it has nothing to do with him."

      "Then why? Why are you doing this to him?" Claire could hear the desperation in her voice, the confusion that followed on the heels of this unexpected revelation.

      "Convenience. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time... it is you I seek to eliminate. You can thank your father for that."

      Her father?

      That's when something Rollan had said came creeping back to her.

      Since Eira took the throne by force, by right of succession you, Claire, have more claim over the throne of Wintershold than she does.

      "I don't want your throne," Claire blurted out, causing the woman opposite her to throw back her head and laugh mockingly.

      "Even if I believed that to be true," she replied, "others will push you to stake your claim, my insipid brother for instance, all under the implication that it is what is best. They'll dress you up like a queen, parade you to the people like some sort of savior and they will follow you because that is a part of their nature they cannot escape."

      "I won't do it," she insisted.

      "It is easy to say that now, but a year from now? Two years? It's a risk I cannot take," she replied. She tilted her head slightly, looking at something just over Claire's shoulder. "Finish the task you were given and then you can find your own hole to die in."

      Before Claire could say another word the visage of the woman faded and she found herself staring at her own reflection – and that of an approaching shadow.

      She turned just in time to see Alek lunging for her. Throwing herself to the side she managed to avoid his outstretched hands, but for how long was an entirely different matter. Scrambling over the bed she used it as a temporary barrier.

      Alek turned to face her, chest heaving, blood staining his clothing and the parts of his skin she could see was covered in hundreds of tiny cuts.

      "Why are you listening to her?" Claire asked breathlessly.

      "I follow all orders given by my queen," he replied almost robotically.

      "Since when does Aleksandr Drosselmeyer listen to anyone but himself?" Claire replied, trying once again to reach the part of him that was still her Alek. "The Alek I know defied the king of Oria, he would never bend a knee to some vengeful witch."

      "There isn't much time left, if you promise to die quietly I promise to make it quick," he said before lunging across the bed. She wasn't fast enough to evade him and he managed to catch her around the waist before dragging them both down to the floor. After a brief struggle, Claire found herself pinned beneath him, both of them struggling to drag air into their screaming lungs. Straddling her waist, he held both her hands captive with one of his own and from his waist band he produced a dagger.

      She stared up at him and was surprised to see pain etched across every inch of his face.

      Now that they were so close and he wasn't huddled in a ball she realized that the tiny scratches weren't simply cuts, but each had a shard of glass protruding from it. Her stomach rolled as she realized they were coming from inside of him, pushing their way out.

      How long had it taken before each sliver breached the surface of his skin?

      The tears that she had been holding back spilled freely down her cheeks. How could someone be so cruel as to inflict this sort of torment on a person?

      "What? That's it? All done fighting?" he asked.

      "I'm sorry," she replied softly.

      He looked taken aback.

      "I'm about to kill you and you're apologizing? The only one you should feel sorry for is yourself," he spat.

      "If it wasn't for me, Eira wouldn't have targeted you... I'm sorry you've had to suffer for so long," she said, her voice thick with emotion. She felt his hold on her wrist loosen and pulled a hand free. She reached out to cup his cheek. "If killing me will end your suffering too..."

      She let her hand fall away and closed her eyes. "Then do whatever you need to do."