The shock of landing heavily in the courtyard, with a body in her ruined arms and astride a barely flight-capable puca, nearly pitched her to the stones below.

She moved like an old woman, as if a weight anchored her to slow and deliberate movements. At some point she'd run out of human tears to cry when the pain overwhelmed any pretense of dignity, so now it was blood leaking from the corners of her trauma-widened eyes. Her composure worsened the closer she got to safety, to the Brucolac, but the young woman with three quarters of herself afflicted by burns needed to regain it before gathering the corpse up to find him. A little corpse carrying a big one like a sleeping bride whose throat had been broken and torn.

Every step reminded her of the sharp edges inside of her, and took a century.