Stan felt fire in his veins as he rushed toward Min. He made it two steps before someone grabbed his arm and spun him around.

"Now now, there'll be plenty of her to go—"

Stan reached over to pry the man's hand from his arm. Instead, crystal sheared through the man's forearm, sending the latter half of his arm to the floor with a sickening plop.

Both Stan and his would-be interloper stared at the appendage, incomprehension mirrored on their faces. The room stilled as everyone looked at the hand and the pool of blood growing beside it.

"My…my hand?"

The man bent over, presumably to pick up his hand, but he only made it halfway before letting out a small moan and toppling over as the shift in blood pressure drove him unconscious. Blood continued to rhythmically pulse, dumping lifeblood on the floor quicker than Stan thought possible.

"Shaper! Rush him!" the Matron screamed.

Stan flinched back. Barely visible shards of crystal had formed around his hands, following the contours of his fingers and extending beyond like knives. He dismissed them in horror as his mind caught up to what he'd done and the dying man on the floor.

"No no no," he whispered as he dismissed the shards.

"Rush him, fools, before he kills us all!"

Her voice finally drew the room out of shock. Three of the men had gathered their wits to rush forward. Stan instinctually threw up a half dome of crystal just in time for them to slam into it with their shoulders, sending him flying back. He hit the floor hard and rolled into Min's legs.

She jerked, blurry eyes fluttering open.

"Wha..." Her eyes widened at the sight of Stan on the floor. "Stan!"

She jerked against her restraints, eyes darting across the room in horror and confusion.

The three attackers slowly pushed themselves off the ground. They looked dazed but unharmed. Odd, Stan had expected them to run head first, but they'd shifted the moment his crystal had folded into shape, almost as if they expected it.

Everyone else was getting organized, and that was also unexpected. Stan frowned as they formed three staggered rows. Not only was no one getting out their casters, several had set theirs to the side. While casters were no threat to a shaper, that was not a thing he'd expect them to know.

"Go!"

The first row launched themselves at him.

Stan raised another shield, this time making sure to embed spikes of it into the floor, walls, and ceiling. He normally avoided causing damage like this with his crystal, but that habit had clearly backfired, and he was well beyond caring.

He stumbled back from the force of their impact and tripped, falling on his backside. Their impact has splintered the floorboards. The crystal spikes grew, elongating through the floor and into the ground beneath until he was satisfied it wouldn't give.

"Get me out of this," Min's voice snarled from behind him.

He pushed himself up and immediately began pulling at the knots, trying hard to keep his eyes averted from her exposed flesh. His fingers were sweating and shaking, slipping off the knot.

"Crystal, Stan, use your Crystal."

He blinked. "Oh, right."

Even anchored, the pummeling of his shield pushed at him, keeping him unbalanced. Not trusting his precision, he cut the bulk of each knot and pulled apart what remained.

Min jumped up and tried to cover herself up, but the way the clothes had been cut made it difficult. Spotting their cloaks piled into the corner, Stan grabbed one and wrapped it around her, earning a grateful look.

"What are they doing?" she said in exasperation. They were staggering their attacks, each row flinging themselves at the shield, then resting while the others went at it.

It had to hurt, smashing their shoulder against what was effectively a steel wall. Most were rubbing out their shoulders while they waited their turn.

"I…I think they're trying to wear me down?"

"Will that work?" Worry pained her face.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. With the crystal anchored like it was, it required almost no energy to keep stable.

Would this tire a normal shaper? He didn't know.

"I think they're attacking my shield to prevent me from…"

"Killing them?"

"…yeah."

"So, kill them," she said through clenched teeth.

"No," he snarled at her, but at her expression, he softened. "No, I don't—just no. I don't want to kill."

Min shifted her gaze off Stan to something on the floor. "A little late for that, I think."

He refused to follow it, turning his gaze opposite hers. He knew exactly what she was looking at.

"I know, but…" His whole body shuddered, breath shallow. He'd killed. He promised himself it would never happen again.

"Then what, Stan?," she snarled, "What will you do? Forsaken gods, they're trying to kill us!"

His mind spun at the sheer rage and hate in her voice. Tears filled his eyes; bile filled his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to force it down. His hands shook. The world became distant, sounds became muffled, yet somehow still managed to scrape his ears.

He forced his eyes open. The dome of crystal was distorting the image of their attackers slightly, making them appear unreal. His eyes tracked the distortion as it wobbled slightly when they flung themselves at his shield.

He frowned, realizing his crystal was lumpy. That’s why they wobbled. A sense of wrongness filled him, like seeing a danger at the corner of his eye and realizing it had been there, watching him. Waiting.

He didn’t know why he felt this way.

“STAN!”

Stan jerked at the sudden intrusion, almost loosing his hold of the crystal entirely.

Deep breath. He didn’t have to kill them.

Turning back to the tide of assaults, he saw exhaustion and fear through crystal that was pristine, perfect, the way it should be. The Matron screamed, her desperation muffled only slightly by the crystal between them.

He raised his arm, palms up, and formed balls of crystal over them.

First one, then three, then six took shape, glittering rainbow in the faint light until almost disappearing altogether. The matron’s eyes widened in horror as the balls raced outward, flickering through his shield to strike the current wave of attackers. It was a trick, opening holes in his shield to let them through, but one that perhaps no one else in the world was capable of.

All six men dropped to the floor, unconscious. He hoped.

The matron screamed.

As Stan formed another six balls, the remaining attacker changed tactics. They grabbed their casters and fired them.

The bolts pinged off crystal, ricocheting randomly.

Crystal balls dropped another six of the men.

The remaining six began to back up, casting glances at the exit. Even the Matron looked ready to bolt, so he folded a shield over the exit, though in retrospect he couldn’t understand why. He didn’t want to hurt them, not really.

But he was angry. This wasn’t the anger of something done, but anger at what one was forced to do. He’d never wanted to hurt anyone, and they’d forced him to, and that made him livid with rage.

One of the men broke to flee, only to run head first into the exit with a sickening crack.

Stan allowed the shield protecting him to dissolve. It was useless now that their attack had faltered. Instead, he spun six balls of crystal around him, one for every other person in the room aside from him and Min.

"What are you?" the matron spat out. Hate and horror warred on her face.

"All we wanted was supplies. Supplies." He shook his head. "I have no idea what feud you're embroiled in, but all we wanted was supplies."

The Matron did not look like she believed him. With a flick of his wrist, he sent five of the balls careening toward the last of her support. They dropped to the floor, puppets whose strings had been suddenly cut.

Stan did not look at them, did not check if they were breathing. He wasn't sure he could bear that weight.

Matron seemed to deflate. She backed slowly from his approach until her back hit the wall.

"Listen, I'm sorry but—"

"You will never get away with this," she spat, literally. He had to wipe it off his face. "My son will see you dead. Every waking minute, he will hunt you. He will never let up, never tire. And the moment you think you're safe, he'll—"

A hand appeared from out of nowhere to slap the Matron hard enough to send her spinning.

"You bitch," Min snarled, stalking the Matron with a ferocity that shocked Stan so much his last ball of crystal dissolved. Not that it mattered. He wasn't going to use it. The idea of using it on an old woman, no matter how vile, sent his stomach spinning.

Stan opened his mouth to object, but Min beat him.

"Hold no pity for that thing," she turned on him. "She'd laugh while I was raped."

Stan slowly closed his mouth. Min turned back to the Matron and then kicked her into the wall. The old woman's head snapped against the wall, before she slumped to the floor.

Min bent over her and snarled, "Supplies."

The Matron pointed to a door opposite them, her breath shallow and broken. When Min raised her foot again, Stan pushed her away before she could kill a vulnerable old woman.

"Fine," Min growled and stalked toward the door the Matron had pointed out.

Stan turned back to the Matron, but the woman's eyes were unfocused on the scene behind him. Blood leaked from the back of her head.

His head began to swim. The world became distant and loud, suddenly too sharp to bear.

He turned away, yet mounds of death greeted him, blood everywhere. It leaked from missing hands, from mouths, ears, and closed eyes. It painted the floor a tapestry of horror, worming its way through his eyes deep into his brain.

It wasn’t real. He knew that. He wasn’t seeing it right, but he couldn’t stop seeing it that way.

His mouth watered, stomach revolting. He tried closing his eyes to it all, but the image had burned his mind, forcing his breath into uneven gasps.

The world seemed to twist and tilt, funneling him toward the exit. He stumbled out the door, bile leaking from his mouth as he slammed into the railing, doubling over it.

He was dry-heaving when Min finally emerged.

Panic melted to relief on seeing him, then slowly shifted to disgust at the contents of his stomach strewn across the porch and ground beyond.

Stan wiped his mouth and stood, looking Min over.

Her eyes were red and puffy. Streaks of mud ran from them to the top of her checks, where they smeared off vigorously.

She was clothed. Hardy clothes of green and brown had been draped over a frame too small for them. Thick wax dulled the colors while adding a sheen meant to keep the rain at bay. The inside looked… scratchy, and given the way Min shifted uncomfortably, they were exactly that. Over it all was one of the cloaks they'd stolen from the Royals, flowing with an unnatural grace over the roughshod cloth beneath it.

Two thick leather straps wrapped her shoulders, with another tied around her waist. While the straps disappeared beneath the cloak, the bulge at her back gave away the backpack.

That and she'd set another one down, already filled to bursting. In her arms was a smaller bundle of cloth matching the ones she wore.

"Dress quickly," she commanded in a raspy snarl, thrusting the bundle toward him.

He did so, pulling the trousers straight over his boots and cinching them to his waist with a rope. The shirt came next, although it was almost think enough to be a coat. It was just as rough as he'd imagined, but the unitard abated the worst of it.

The pack was heavier than he imagined, and he grunted under the weight. For a moment, he considered carrying the thing in crystal, but one look at Min's face, and he dismissed the idea.

If she was going to carry one, he would too. So he shouldered the pack and threw his cloak over it all.

She stalked away before he finished, forcing him into a jog to catch up.

---

The rain had gotten worse. Stan kept a formed umbrella of Crystal above him large enough to cover the both of them, but Min stomped on, huffing in the rain. Every time he tried to form crystal over her, she'd intentionally speed up until she was out of his range.

At one point they were both running, him trying to keep her dry, while she wanted nothing to do with it.

He stopped trying, and she eventually settled into a brutal walk. She was actually doing a better job of getting them lost than he ever had.

He had no idea what to do. He felt the need to fix it but didn’t know where to start. Twice he tried to talk to her, and twice she snarled wordlessly at him. Each time, the following hour was spent jogging.

A memory of a tiger bubbled in his head, pacing relentlessly in its cage, back and forth, rage curled up on itself, eating itself from the inside out. Someone had brought it to the troupe, thinking it an easy in. But the troupe had a reputation for treating their animals well, and that tiger was treated as anything but, so the man was sent away. No animals performed that night, and when their trainers returned the next morning, they said nothing.

Never mind the lack of a cage, Min reminded him of that tiger.

Eventually, Min stopped at a small clearing beside a fallen tree. Blackened and splintered, the trunk lay propped on a pair of small boulders, its blackened shards pointing accusingly toward the sky.

Min sat on the smaller boulder, back rigid against the trunk, her pack untied next to her. Her eyes looked at nothing, first curled, body shivering.

Stan didn't think she was cold. He didn't think she even wanted to stop, despite the fact that neither of them had eaten in almost two days. His legs were weak and shaky, and she couldn't be fairing any better, but he had no doubt she'd have pushed until she collapsed if it didn't mean stumbling through the dark.

He formed a canopy of crystal over the small clearing, and then, in a moment of inspiration, cordoned off the clearing with a small wall of Crystal to divert water around it. He'd learned his lesson—they'd sleep dry tonight.

Or...dry-ish. The ground was soaked.

He then sent out more crystal to gather as much wood as possible, roaming the edges and pulling in whatever wood caught his eye. Once he gathered enough, he pulled it into a pile and speared a yellow shard of Glass into the wood. It sizzled for a long time, boiling off water. He was dizzy from the effort by the time it caught fire.

Min hadn't moved the whole time, although he thought her breathing may have slowed a little.

A crystal flue formed over the fire to draw the smoke up through a hole in the umbrella and around a small cap he used to keep the rain out. He didn't bother hiding the smoke. There was no point in the dark and rain.

Min's eyes latched on the flames. Her fists squeezing occasionally as though she were moments from punching someone.

Stan sat on a small rock almost opposite of her and allowed the fire to draw him in.

The flames twisted and turned, flowing around sticks and carrying pieces of them into the air. They danced in delight, shaving away pieces, burning them into embers as they hissed.

He could almost hear their screams.

The pop and crack of bone filled his ears as wood crumbled into mounds of glowing ash. One of the embers leaked something that sizzled, little tears of fire that shrieked until they were doused by the black ash.

Stan shuddered, drawing his head down into his hands.

"I didn't kill them," he whispered to himself, over and over again.

He couldn't have. The mounds of dead lied, a vision born of fear and self-hatred. He'd only knocked them unconscious—he knew that. All the blood was from the man's arm, spread out over the floor and smeared from boots as they attacked him.

They were just unconscious. That's why he used the balls. He could have cut their heads off…or something. But he didn't. So they were alive.

They had to be.

"That…that bitch violates everything, everything good about the Mother." Min's voice came out cracked and ragged, startling him. "Every precept, everything the Matron is supposed to stand for, she twisted into…into…"

Stan looked up, his hands still cupped.

"She was no Matron."

She jumped to her feet. "And what did you do about it? Let her live? Protected her!?"

"No! Why do you—"

"Do you like that kind of thing, Stan? Did you like seeing me naked? Did you want to join—"

He stood. "Stop! What is wrong with you?"

He regretted those words the moment they left his lips.

"No. No, I didn't mean—

"Wrong? Wrong…with me?" Her lips curled into a snarl, revealing clenched teeth. "What. Is Wrong. With. You, Stan?"

"Nothing, I jus—"

"THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU KILL THEM!" Her scream, raw and primal, filled the night.

Stan took a step back, stunned.

"No…" he shook his head. "No. I don't do that. I won't ever be—"

She screamed. Fists clenched so hard her hands were shaking, her voice filled with rage and pain, she screamed. Again and again she screamed, until her throat was raw as sandpaper, voice little more than a rasp.

Then it was gone. She deflated, shoulder slumping as she drew in on herself. Glassy eyed, she stumbled back to her rock, sat down, and buried her head into her hands.

He stood there, next to the fire, staring at her while her shoulders shook and tears splattered on the soaked ground. He walked over and, very gently, placed his hand on her shoulder.

She jerked away, snapping, "Don't touch me".

He snatched his hand back, the other held out as though to protect himself.

When he didn't move, she jumped up and screamed, "GO AWAY!"

He stumbled back, almost into the fire, then caught himself. By the time he sat back down on his rock, she'd already disappeared into her hands again.

He watched her until he was forced to feed the fire or let it go out. So he collected more wood, first by collecting what he could from the edges of the clearing, then by shaving it from the dead trunk when he'd run out of sticks. It would mark where he'd been, but he was too tired to care.

Besides, the same fire that tormented him made him feel exposed in its absence.

So he stared at it while it tormented him with visions of death. Unable to look away. Unable to stand his thoughts, cycling endlessly, questioning himself, his decisions. Disgusted with his lack of action, horrified at what he'd done, hating himself for not doing more, terrified he'd done too much.

When it became too much, he glanced over at Min. She'd stopped crying, though her head was still propped up in her hands. He narrowed his eyes, peering closer. Was she…?

He took a few quiet steps closer, trying to listen over the sound of the fire.

A soft snore reached his ears.

That could not be comfortable. Just looking at her made his neck ache. Should he wake her up? That seemed like a bad idea and for a while, he waffled on what to do. A brief look in his pack revealed no blankets, just food. He did see the end of a rope, but it was stuffed at the bottom and not really a solution anyway.

He sighed and pulled off his coat, leaving his upper half of his unitard exposed. Crystal smoothed out the driest part of the clearing he could find and laid out the coat flat. His cloak was folded into a head pillow on the far end.

The next part was tricky. Kneeling, he carefully threaded his arm under her knees with his other hovering over her back. With a grunt, he lifted her into a princess hold.

Her eyes fluttered open, anger and confusion reflected in them, causing his heart to race. At this point, he figured she just might slug him, or claw his eyes out.

She didn't. Her confusion melted to relief when she saw him. A moment later, her eyes had closed again.

Relief swelled in him, relief and something else he refused to acknowledge.

He wasted no time placing her on his makeshift bedding, huffing lightly from the effort. She stirred again, settling, but didn't open her eyes. After a few adjustments to her cloak to make sure she was covered, Stan stepped back.

She looked almost peaceful.

His exhaustion bubbled to the surface, and after feeding the fire again, he curled up beside it in the mud and fell asleep within moments.