"Trueheart"

Sir Trueheart was mad, Cecil knew. Cracked by the strain of finding the Lady's blackened body, the search outside the castle for whatever cherufe or salamander was responsible.

Before, Cecil had obeyed Trueheart's enraged commands, ignored his habitual dalliances. But now, he simply couldn't drive the dagger into his bared breast.

"Lord," he stammered, "let us again search outside."

Trueheart seized Cecil's wrist. Thrust in the blade. Jerked down.

There was no arterial gush. Rather a gout of ash, a startled hiss, a flash of flame.

"If only," Trueheart breathed, "it was outside. Cecil, I'll need that dagger once more."