The hiss of the shower ceased, replaced by a sudden, profound silence. The handle of the bathroom door turned with a soft click. A moment later, it swung open, disgorging a dense cloud of steam that smelled of soap and scalded stone.

  Bazren: "Finally...!"

  Mola emerged from the swirling vapour, a towel wrapped tightly around her torso. One arm held it secure, a stark white anchor against her pale skin. The other hung limply at her side. It twitched. Fresh, raw runes, the colour of a new scar, were carved into the flesh of her forearm.

  

  

  Mola: "... Spare me your idiotic comments."

  She moved with a renewed confidence that was unnerving, a brittle shell over the broken thing beneath.

  Mola: "I'm in no mind to hear them from either of you."

  Xayn, who had been observing the door with a tense stillness, simply rolled his eyes and rose from his chair. He had taken the cue.

  Xayn: "Right. Well, I suppose I'm up. Good luck, Bazren..."

  Bazren shot him a venomous glare as he moved past her.

  Bazren: "OY! Why do you get to go --"

  SLAM.

  The bathroom door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet. Bazren was alone with her.

  Mola: "Move. I fancy those."

  She pointed a single, steady finger towards the pile of clothes resting on the bed beside Bazren.

  Bazren: "You do, do you? Tough luck. I was already planning on wearing them."

  Mola closed the distance between them, her proximity an invasion, her gaze cold and direct.

  Mola: "Don't play games with me, Bazren. I'm truly not in the mood."

  She raised her scarred arm, releasing her hold on the towel. Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the freshly carved sigils. They ignited, glowing with a fierce, fiery-red light. In her other hand, a sphere of flame coalesced, its heat warping the air, its light casting dancing, monstrous shadows on the walls.

  The towel fell to the floor in a soft heap. She stood before Bazren, naked and unbothered, armed with fire.

  Bazren's gaze hardened, the corner of her new lips pulling into a slow, dangerous smile.

  Bazren: "I have no idea what happened to you in there..."

  She rose to her feet, her form easily towering over Mola's.

  Bazren: "... but if you think you have any authority over me..."

  Pink sparks, like static electricity given malevolent life, began to crackle across her skin.

  Bazren: "... you're sorely mistaken."

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  A silent exhalation, and her entire body erupted in a column of incandescent pink flame. The heat was immense, a dry, consuming wave that made Mola flinch back. Her old, torn clothes, still clinging to her form, crisped into black ash and fell away. The grime and dried blood of the road evaporated, leaving behind nothing but the smooth, pale, and utterly flawless skin beneath.

  Bazren: "I don't need Xayn's help to kick your sorry ass. In fact, he's not even here to stop me... So fall back in line before I raze this damn place to the ground with your body buried beneath the rubble -- just to prove a point."

  She leaned in, the heat from her burning form a palpable threat, her proximity now a suffocating pressure.

  Bazren: "Oh, and cute flames you've got there."

  She drew her right arm back. An explosion of pink fire roared from her hand, and from within it, her flail materialized, the metal glowing, the chain humming with barely restrained fury.

  Bazren: "I think mine shine just a little bit brighter, though."

  With a final, fluid motion, she raised the flail. The wickedly spiked ball came to rest just beneath Mola's chin, the metal scorching her skin. Mola gasped, stumbling back, her concentration shattering. The fireball in her hand sputtered and died.

  Bazren: "Without your filthy dark magics, you're nothing but a third-rate witch. Learn your place, or one of these little tantrums will be your last."

  Mola grit her teeth, a low hiss of fury escaping her lips as she snatched the remaining pile of clothes from the bed.

  Neither spoke again as they dressed. Bazren donned a tasteful garb of dark blue and purple, the short skirt and fitted bodice hinting at a lethal grace. Mola was left with a tacky olive dress, its ornate frills and restrictive cut a cage of cheap fabric. Bazren settled onto the edge of the bed, a queen on a temporary throne. Mola retreated to the farthest chair, a coiled serpent. Bathed in the soft, warm light of the inn room, they were a portrait of impossible, angelic beauty, a perfect, fragile mask over the monsters that seethed beneath.

  Bazren: "So, tell me, then."

  She tilted her head, her gaze pinning Mola to the chair.

  Bazren: "What kind of trap is waiting for us at this tournament?"

  Mola's eyes, which had been fixed on the floor, snapped up, widening in surprise.

  Mola: "Trap...?"

  A dry, humourless sound escaped Bazren's nose.

  Bazren: "Are you going to play dumb with me? You might fool Xayn, but I'm not so naive. Even if Tentoria ordered you to help us, you'd never do it willingly. You'd sooner see us both destroyed on your own terms."

  Mola: "Is that so...? And then what? Am I to be stuck with her echoing between my ears for the rest of my days? Like it or not, you two are my only shot at getting rid of her."

  Bazren shook her head, a slow, dismissive motion.

  Bazren: "Except nobody ever said there was a way to rid yourself of her, Mola. For all any of us know, you're bound together for good... and it sounds so very unlike you to ride on the hope of some miracle. You were awfully quick to shoot down the chance that we could still save our own people."

  Mola: "I was quick to shoot it down because it is utterly foolish! Your people are gone, I am almost certain of it."

  Bazren: "Maybe, maybe not. At least Tentoria is backing us up on that one. But who, exactly, is backing you up on this idea that you can, one day, become the sole inhabitant of your body once more...?"

  Mola's hands curled into tight fists in her lap.

  Bazren: "Well, come on then. You can simply say it was her. Just say Tentoria promised you. That's the easy way out, isn't it? We can't prove you otherwise. Such a handy ace to have up your sleeve...!"

  Mola: "You're a real fucking bitch. You know that, right?"

  A hearty, genuine laugh burst from Bazren.

  Bazren: "Don't be so mad, Mola. Being a bitch is the one thing you can still hope to beat me at... and frankly, you're not so far from doing it."

  Mola: "Alright. Since you're so desperate to know what awaits you in that tournament, let me tell you."

  She rose from the chair, a flicker of her old, defiant fire returning to her eyes. Bazren leaned forward, her interest piqued.

  Mola: "Humiliation. Defeat. Death."

  Bazren froze, blinking. The silence stretched.

  Bazren: "... And?"

  Mola: "You're going to die, Bazren. There's someone there, a champion. Someone far more powerful than any of us. He will destroy you."

  Bazren stared for a beat, then snorted. The snort became a chuckle, which rapidly erupted into a full-blown, mocking guffaw.

  Bazren: "That's it?! That's your grand plan?! To have us lose a tournament and die...?"

  Mola's face flushed with fury.

  Mola: "Laugh all you want...! You'll see. YOU'LL SEE!"

  Bazren: "My, my, my... And here I was fearing some intricate, horrible plot, some black-magic, sacrificial fuckery that would send everything in a fifty-mile radius straight to the void... But no. You're just hoping some brave, handsome warrior will slay the undead monsters and save the damsel in distress! HAHAHAH!"

  The laughter was a physical blow. Mola sank back into her chair, her brief flare of defiance extinguished.

  Mola: "Underestimate him at your own peril... You're going to eat every last one of those words, Bazren."