Valessa used it to propel her onward. She longed for the comfort of sleep, for a respite from the pain and guilt. But it would not come, so onward she followed the red star. It led her through plains, farmlands, and at last to a forest whose name she did not know. The sun and moon rose and fell, their light and darkness just as meaningless to her as bread or water. The thick branches and leaves proved problematic at first, for they blocked the light of the star. But she found that when she stopped to focus, to demand its crimson light, it could pierce even the forest canopy. “Praise be, Karak,” she whispered. “Praise be.” She ran, at first weaving through the trees on nothing more than instinct. When she realized how pointless that was, she might have laughed, but even laughter caught in her throat. Her body was meant for slaughter and pain, not humor. Not pleasure. Penance. Her path lost its weave, and she plunged through the trees, feeling the trunks and low branches pass through her.
