«I am here, beloved.» His voice returned, a deep baritone, steady and reassuring. He was there with her in the darkness, just as he'd been with her in the blinding gray-white of the Mists. He would always be there with her.

The brief moment of doubt and fear passed, and her confidence surged anew. As long as Rain was with her, she was strong.

She traced the threads of her weave as a miner lost in the impenetrable blackness of a cave might follow a rope to guide himself back to the surface, only she followed to go deeper into the mine. Finally, after a seemingly endless plunge into dark, light reappeared. First came soft glimmers of red, then dim, faint glows of a brighter hue that, as she drew nearer, became small orbs of rainbow-hued light, flickering uncertainly. The kitlings.

And with them, the enemy she'd come to fight.

A nearly invisible, shifting darkness that merged into the surrounding black of the Well. Nothing as substantial as smoke, but rather an oily void that moved as if it were alive. From it flowed countless tiny threads, like black spider silk, attached to the kitlings' souls, sucking at them like so many leeches, draining away their brightness.

She lashed at the dark threads, tearing them away from the unwilling hosts.

«Get away from them! Leave them alone.»

The threads reared back, writhing blindly. A handful of them latched onto her. She ripped them away, only to find a dozen more reaching out to replace them. Everywhere they touched, her brightness dimmed, as if the hungry mouths were draining her soul too.

«Ellysetta!» Rain cried. A surge of power raced through her, filling her with the bright, powerful, blazing light of his love.

The black thing shrank back, its silken threads releasing her as if burned.

Yes. Yes, that's it, ajiana. No darkness, no matter how deep, holds dominion over Light. Shine your Light, Ellysetta. Weave your love.

The voice spoke with quiet certainty, reaffirming her strength. She could do this. She had the power. The gods had chosen her to do it.

She drew upon her magic, upon Rain's fiercely shining brightness, upon the strength of the tairen concentrated in the crystals she held and the song that swirled around her. It still wasn't enough. Too much of her own strength was tethered to that safety anchor she'd prepared, and the magic she needed to weave now demanded everything she had to give.

She released her anchor, gathering that magic into herself as well, summoning every bit of power from every source she could find. She spun it into threads, glowing, golden-white shei'dalins love, burning bright as the Great Sun, and with it shadowy Azrahn, dark as the ember of a dead star. The new pattern both fed strength into the kits and began to shear away those feeding mouths from the Well.

As each dark strand withered and fell away, the kitlings' light shone brighter.

She kept feeding power into her weave, drawing upon Rain, the tairen, and the seemingly limitless source of confidence and love she'd found so unexpectedly here in the Well. Her Azrahn and shei'dalin's love were so tightly interwoven, the threads became a single melded rope. Light and dark strobed in rhythm like blood flowing through the life-giving arteries of a god. The light was stronger than the dark. Its radiant glow brightened the shadows, each pulse more brilliant than the last, until no hint of red-tinged black nor even sickly gray shone in the incandescent threads of her weave.

She spun that life, that love, and that fierce strength into the kits' souls, pouring it out upon them as the Source of Dharsa poured its waters upon the fountains and streams of the city, giving them everything, holding back nothing for herself.

The kitlings' voices grew louder, surer. The timid, hesitant glimmers of their song became shining stars of gold and silver light, a river of sparkling brightness that illuminated the Well as it spiraled upwards.

«Go, dearlings," Ellysetta urged. «Go.» She gave them each a gentle nudge with sun-bright hands. The shining orbs that were the kitlings' souls shifted, spreading, stretching out small limbs and wings to become small, dazzling glows of tairen-shaped light. They soared upwards, following the river of song out of the Well.

Vadim Maur roared as he felt the bright souls of the tairen escaping from Choutarre's grip. Bitter rage and reckless fury warred inside him. He plunged the exorcism needle filled with Ellysetta's blood into his own vein and whispered the release spell. The searing rush of her powerful blood mingled with his own. His senses and his connection to her sharpened.

For the second time that night, he struck.

Ellysetta shrieked as the Mage's dark power drove a new blade of ice into her heart.

Her light shattered, and the Well was plunged into darkness.

Dimly she heard Rain calling her name, but the sound was muffled and so far away. Weariness enveloped her. She was so tired, her strength depleted. She'd given everything she had to the kitlings, keeping precious little for herself, and the fourth Mark that now bloomed on her breast had drained what Light yet remained.

In the darkness and silence, she could hear the voices, the whispers, calling her name as they had at the peak of the Fire Song. The urge to let go was nearly overpowering. She was so tired, and somehow the voices didn't seem so frightening anymore. Now, they seemed only welcoming.

"Ellysetta!" Rain's voice boomed in the silence of the Well. The threads of their bond blazed with sudden incandescence as the vast, immeasurable force of his power sizzled down them, as strong and vibrant as faerilas from Dharsa's Source, shocking her back to alertness.

Rain, her mate. Rain, her love.