No matter what, Elayra had to keep Drust’s full attention. Prevent him from taking too much notice of Ghent’s ghostly form.
	“Drust,” she began, deciding to at least try talking him down. “You need to fight against this.” Her voice mingled with the distant cries of the dead. His head straightened to look to her. “You’re stronger than the Curse! Whatever this place is making you feel, it’s [i]wrong.[/i]” She swallowed, unsure if she wanted more to convince him or herself of the statement. 
	Drust’s head twitched violently to the side and an almost choked snarl floated through the gray darkness. 
	Holding her breath, she forced herself to relax her sword and take a small step toward him. “Listen to [i]me,[/i] Drust.” Her gaze flicked over the shadowy mass of his face. “Not the forest. Not… not [i]her[/i]. But [i]me.[/i]”
	Drust’s shoulders rose in a deep breath and he bent his head.
	Elayra eyed him suspiciously, cautiously, and took another partial step forward. His silence unnerved her, his voice the only easy tell in the dark for if the Curse remained in control.
	“We’re going to break this Curse. For you. For [i]everyone.[/i]” False confidence strengthened her voice.
	Drust clenched his fists. He released them, and his entire stance relaxed.
	She inhaled, daring to hope. Elayra took another uneasy step forward so they stood only a sword’s length apart. “And we’re going to do it together. The two—[i]three[/i] of us.” She cast Ghent half a glance. “We [i]need[/i] you, Drust!”
	“Yes. You do.”
	Before Elayra could fully register the malicious, gravely undertone still in his voice, Drust struck out like a viper. 
	She tried to jump back and raise her sword, but he grabbed her left wrist, the blade pointed away from him. He slid his hand closer to hers as she threw a right hook at his jaw.
	Drust tilted and blocked her punch with a raised forearm. He knocked her right arm to the side and twisted her left hand. Elayra gasped through her teeth and relinquished the sword to him to keep him from snapping her wrist.
	The moment he released her, she ducked down and kicked out at his knees as well as she could. The near complete darkness made it difficult to predict his movements and turned the two into little more than fighting black blurs weaving through the small clearing. Sparks of phantom energy flashed through the woods, granting quick, eerie glimpses tainted with green, gold, and white.
	He hopped back with snarl. Her shoe grazed his trousers. He struck out at her legs, then, as she pulled away and straightened, he landed a side kick to her stomach.
	The wind knocked from her and she stumbled back into a tree. The bruise on her back protested. Before she could suck in a breath, Drust pinned her against the rough bark. She grit her teeth as he placed the blade of her saber against her throat.
	“Because you’re no warrior.” He made a sound somewhere between a tisk and cluck, his words stiff. “Can’t even keep your sword.”
	“Snap out of it, Drust!” she hissed.
	 “Can’t keep your mouth shut.” He pressed the blade harder, and she closed her mouth. “Can’t go two steps without wreaking havoc. Always bickering. Arguing. Threatening your pathetic companion. If the Queen doesn’t kill him, [i]you[/i] will!”
	Elayra swallowed, the action uncomfortable beneath the blade. “I won’t,” she breathed, her voice betraying her in a tremble. “You know I won’t. Just like I know this isn’t [i]you![/i]”
	“You. Know. [i]Nothing![/i]” he finished in a low, hair-raising growl.
	He removed the sword from her throat. She tried to push him away and kicked at him. But he was too close and his strength pressing against her too great for her to create enough force to deal any significant damage.
	A phantom flash of sickly green glinted malevolently on the blade as Drust turned his hand with the saber. He raised it and aimed the pummel at Elayra’s temple.

[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/olp6rXf.png?1[/img][/center]
	A small, grim smile pulled at Smaya’s lips at Ghent’s eagerness. “You called on the Spirataum, young Madrail. The call of a vinifcium will always be answered.” She watched as he closed his eyes. “Concentrate on returning yourself. The tichari have their own means of traveling between realms.”
	With a gentle sigh, her body turned into emerald mist. The ghostly tendrils around her coiled further away, some even dipping as if in a reverent bow. Even Margen turned toward her, stretched out, and bowed his head to his paws in a respectful farewell.
	“There is much you must know.” Her disembodied voice echoed around the Betwixt, whispering between glittering speckles. “Yet so little time.” The mist coiled upward then dispersed with a gentle rush. “May we meet again,” the fading remnants of her voice uttered, “son of Hatter.”
	Even with Smaya gone, the tendrils kept their distance from Ghent. One ventured a little too close to Margen, and the fox spun around and nipped at it playfully. An electric bluish-white light buzzed down the coil. It recoiled then raced away.
	As Ghent concentrated, a cold chill seeped down his spine before washing over him. The gentle light of the Betwixt filtering through his eyelids gave way to the darkness of night. Noises filled his ears. Banshee screeches and the screams of the fallen. Brave war cries and the last fearful whispers of the dying. They came in a garbled mush, as if his head had submerged underwater. But they remained only sounds, their emotions kept at bay.
	One voice rose above the others, Elayra’s voice, more solid than the cries of the spirits, yet just as muted: [i]“Just like I know this isn’t [u]you![/u]”[/i]
	The ground felt suddenly real beneath him as if it had risen to greet his return, the grass chilled and vines hard.
	The veil filtering sound disappeared as he fully returned to the physical world. The cries of the dead vanished. But in their wake, Drust’s voice, thick with the Curse, broke through the night:
	“You. Know. [i]Nothing![/i]”