60— Vanessa-Jane Chapman “I can’t do it!”

Jenelle wrestled with the confusing emotions that surged through her. Morath was wise, the wisest one, and if she said that is what must happen, then who was Jenelle to disobey? And yet, to perish her, it was unthinkable.

What would Janosc do? Oh Janosc, what would you do?

“I can’t do it Morath, don’t ask me to, it’s not fair!”

“It has nothing to do with fairness. I’m not asking you to do it, I’m telling you to, it is the only way.” Morath gripped Jenelle’s wrist, and placed a gleaming silver dagger in her palm. Instinctively Jenelle’s trembling fingers closed around it. “There is no choice child! And no more time. Do it now.” The steely determination in her voice drove through Jenelle.

Jenelle was aware of the trail of tears streaking down both sides of her face, and a pain deep in her gut. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her arm raise up high, dagger clenched tight. She felt dismembered from it, and yet the dagger was hot and burned into her skin. Held high, her arm shook violently, white knuckles protruding.

“Do it!” Morath’s voice pierced through the air and she buried her face into the dirt, certain of her fate. A fate that may have come to fruition had it not been for the breeze from the East. Fae legend told tale of the breeze from the East; nobody knew for sure what it was, only that it would come when the time was due. It arrived first at ground level, whirling its way snake-like around Jenelle’s feet and swiftly moving up her legs. Morath felt it too, her head lifted from the ground as Jenelle’s dagger-clenched hand dropped limply to her side.