Mahala awoke to darkness, clutching her chest. The fire still burned.

“Luck?” she called out weakly.

Nothing. it was so faint, not even an echo came back.

She pushed back her matted hair so she could press her ear to her wrist watch. She couldn’t see the time but the ticking gave her assurance that time still moved in the dark. Perhaps it was six o’clock, maybe seven o’clock.

“Are you sure you want to go to the border?” Luck asked.

Mahala jerked her head round. Still dark. He wasn’t there. Nothing had stirred for a hundred ticks of her clock, but she was still not fully convinced she was alone.

“I understand you wish to support the Lord Protector, I understand you have your own role to play for our country, but you don’t have to do this, My lady. The plague is dangerous.”

Luck was wrong. She had to. That was what her father wanted, what her country expected. The Lady of Pomolin will come to the quarantine zones to talk to the victims of the infected, would ask them what they needed that Pomolin hadn’t been able to provide yet. She’ll play with the children. Smile for the camera. Then go home.

Home.

Mahala felt the warmth of the fireplace on her back, the silk rug nursing her feet.

Luck’s blank ink eyes melted around the darkness. “I will see you in the morning, my lady.”

Her Luck wasn’t there. Her chest burned.

I’m losing it.

“My name is Mahala Pesh,” she said out loud. She barely heard herself but it sobered her a little.

Mahala sat up straight.

“My name is Mahala Pesh,” she said. “25 years old, born in Shoredon. Citizen of Pomolin. Child of— Um, only daughter to Lord Protector Chares Pesh. I’m stuck in a cave. Everything hurts. I’ve been fucking stabbed—“ Her hand clapped over her mouth.

Mahala Pesh was not the kind of lady that cursed. She was the Lady of Pomolin. 

Her chest burned.

“I’m infected,” she whispered.

She could feel the ugly red wyrm curled on her breast, fused to the skin by long jagged tendrils. She winced as her finger brushed the gaping wound that should have definitely killed her. The wyrm must’ve stitched her flesh back together.

That son of a bitch actually tried to kill me—

Mahala groaned. She was meant to be the Lady of Pomolin. She wanted to go back to the light, the clean air, silk sheets, beautiful dresses, a cup of fruit tea… her father.