Elayra shot Ghent a murderous glare at his reminder of her thanks. “Shut up and do what I said!” she snapped, her attention shifting between Ghent and Drust. She scowled as she noticed the blue glow from Margen’s lights had dimmed since forming.
	As Ghent rooted around in her backpack, she stole a glance to the orbs. As she feared, they looked smaller, the electricity a bit less energetic than before. 
	“Hurry up, Featherhead!” she muttered, casting another glance toward the small box she had abandoned at the side of the stacked wood.
	She released a heavy breath she had not realized she held when Ghent found the rope.
	She moved closer to Drust as Ghent rejoined her, shoving the rope at her. She gave a quick, stiff nod to Ghent’s first request. Letting the rope fall to the ground and using her aching arm more as a support, she helped roll Drust over onto his stomach.
	The fatigue eating at her muscles made the man feel heavier than she expected. He moaned and shifted at the movement. Elayra swore she saw his eyelids flutter, but it could easily have been a trick of the light.
	“Too much time, too much extra rope,” she snapped at Ghent’s suggestion of how to tie up Drust. She swiftly drew her dagger and cut two lengths of rope out of the longer strand. She replaced her weapon and tossed the longer of the two pieces to Ghent. “Get his feet.” She sat on Drust’s back, one knee on either side of the massive man. “Make sure it’s [i]above[/i] his boots,” she added hastily.
	[i]Even if he messes that up,[/i] she thought to herself, pulling both of Drust’s hands behind his back, [i]it’ll still trip him up for a second if we need it to… but we [u]won’t[/u] need it to,[/i] she tried convincing herself. 
	She made short work of Drust’s hands. With familiar, practiced movements, she looped the rope around his wrists in an intricate, tight knot. One of his hands reflexively tried to jerk away, nearly pulling her off balance, but she grit her teeth and held it firmly until she finished. 
	Not wanting to waste the remaining light, she quickly got up from Drust and returned to the firepit.
	“Got that, Featherhead?” she asked, sparing Ghent barely a glance as she hastily stuffed dried leaves and smaller twigs in the opening of the wood pile.
	She popped the top of the lid open, its hinges squeaking lightly, and let out a low, dismayed growl. Two compartments created the inside of the box, one housing a couple wads of what looked like extra fluffy cotton, and the other empty.
	Regardless, she pulled out one of the fluffy white balls, the orbs of light growing ever smaller and casting more shadows over the clearing. Just smaller than your average cotton ball, she cupped it in her hand and took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind and reach out to the magic of the world.
	She felt the magic against her subconsciousness, sick and angry, a creature caged within its own domain. It made a pit form in her stomach as it tried to knowledge her, coming in quick weak lashes as it fought against the Curse.
	Gaze intent on the cottony ball, she breathed out, “[i]Igniculus![/i]” 
	She felt the magic try to surge in her palm, only to fall away from her, the focus word not strong enough to break past the Curse’s restrictions. She grit her teeth and tried again, saying the word louder and with more conviction, but it offered no improvement.
	She glared at Ghent in the remaining light. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Feel like using more magic?” she growled reluctantly, rubbing her thumb against the feathery soft ball of fluff.