Watching the steam curl from her cup, Alicia is alone once again, her ghosts pressing against her shoulder-blades, trying to garner her attention. She refuses to give in, not on this day.

Today she leaves it all behind. Today she travels to the Costa mill to bury the last pieces of her past and forget her war against the grand duke. As a noble woman, the duke was untouchable. It took her pa dying to make her realise that. But as an exile, there's not even a sliver of hope.

She's done sacrificing.

"Is the tea not to your liking?"

Alicia starts at the voice and twists around in her chair to see Oliver leaning against the door-frame leading into the dining room. He slings a fine, deep blue blazer over his shoulder, inspecting her.

Alicia's fingers tighten around the porcelain cup. "It's fine. Thank you." Lowering her gaze, Alicia turns away from him, not wanting to draw more of his attention.

What they endured together in those tunnels shouldn't be talked about. But beyond that, she doesn't know this man and he doesn't know her. She doesn't know what happened to him after the grand duke forced him into his service, and he doesn't know what she endured in the war to make her family's name mean something.

It's better if they stay strangers.

"Nervous?" he questions, moving further into the room to grab an apple from the basket on the kitchen counter.

"Should I be?"

"Going back out there is no simple thing."

"I was out there for two months." She traces her fingers along the dust on the table, creating patterns as she tries not to think about who was with her for those two months, who she'll never see again.

"Are you prepared to do what's necessary?" he asks.

Glancing at him, Alicia feels his words more than she wants to as she recalls their conversation from the night before. It was her inability to survive out here that got Kathryn killed, her unwillingness to do every terrible thing she once did.

She can't. Not anymore.

"Is this your home?" she questions, knowing if she tries to answer him she'll have to lie.

"It is."

"I can leave, find other arrangements."

"You're fine here."

Alicia nods, not putting up much more of an argument. It's quiet here, and she doesn't mind the smell of dust. "And this is your coat?" she continues, touching the thick wool around her shoulders.

He gives a curt nod.

"Would you like it back?"

Oliver approaches the door, shrugging into his blazer. "Keep it," is all he says before his retreating footsteps take him out the front door.

Alone again, Alicia decides it's time she gets ready for her journey beyond the walls into the aptly named Dead Lands.

She still remembers the days when she and her family would take a cart beyond the capital to Kathryn's farm where their horses lived. The upkeep of those horses is what kept them in the slums, but her pa always promised their fortunes could be found in such animals. He wasn't wrong, but it turns out there were a lot more steps involved in order to gain those riches and Alicia is the one who took them.

Every mistake she made led to her being here, and dwelling on it isn't going to change the fact that she left everything behind. That she chose to leave everything behind.

Standing, Alicia banishes such thoughts from her mind. They don't matter anymore. Nothing she did for her family matters, her ma still betrayed her. Her pa still died. She's still an exile.

She dumps her barely touched tea down the sink and goes to her room. Her room. It's strange to think of it that way after being in it for just one day. Yesterday, she was on the forest floor with hands wrapped around her throat, hoping for death. Now she stands in her room, living in a house that belongs to a man she knows nothing about beyond his ability to kill and see through her half-truths.

Alicia moves for the satchel on her bed and reaches into the ripped open fabric down the bottom to pull out the journal. She traces her fingers over the worn leather, but instead of the filled pages and scribbling writing, all she sees is her pa's blood.

This small book of translated writing and half-formed ideas cost her pa his life. It cost her everything.

She shoves the book into her bag. She'll bury it with the rest of her past and hope this guilt is buried with it.

From the corner of her eye, Alicia catches sight of the glass on her bedside table, a bottle of amber liquid sitting beside it. Untouched, begging for her to drown herself.

She doesn't need to resist such pulls, not as an exile.

Pouring herself a drink before she hesitates, Alicia winces as the alcohol burns a trail down to her belly, warming her insides, making that numbness within her not feel so cold.

The numbness; she should be terrified of it. She should be thinking of all the sacrifices she made forgetting the person she once was. But she's thinking on it now more than ever as she pours herself another drink.

For six years, Alicia has dreamed of the tomb. The vastness of it, the sheer hollowness that devoured all light. It seemed to be filled with nothing but shadows, the slight scuffle of something in the dark shattering such an illusion, but it was an illusion she wanted so badly to believe. It was easier to pretend the tomb was filled with nothing but stone and dust.

That place is the closest she can come to describing how she'd felt during her war in the slums. The feelings that had once writhed so viciously within her didn't bubble in her chest and grip her throat, they were mere scuffles in the dark that she ignored. Grief, anger, fear, none of it was there to hang her existence on. All she had to ground herself to the earth was the cold press of a revolver in her palm, carving calluses that didn't fit the household tasks she was meant to be doing.

She wasn't a person. She wasn't a thinking and feeling being of flesh and bone. She was a myth. She was a mimicry of a name whispered in the shadows alongside the Reaper's. She wasn't real.

She couldn't be real, because what mind wouldn't shatter under the things she'd done?

As she rolls the tumbler of whiskey between her hands, she realises that for the past four years she's been fooling herself. She didn't leave her past behind. She didn't find redemption in the palace. She was running from something she could never escape, because falling back into that vast nothingness is far easier than it should be for someone who had supposedly escaped it.

The banging on the front door nearly makes the glass slip from her grip, but she manages to set it down on the bedside table before she can test Oliver's hospitality by breaking another of his glasses.

"Alicia!" a woman calls from outside and she recognises the voice instantly.

Another headache she doesn't know how to deal with beyond ignoring the pressure.

"I don't have time to wait for you all day."

Sighing, Alicia grabs her now dry scarf and wraps it around her neck to cover the fingerprint bruises before slinging the strap of her satchel across her chest. As ready as she'll ever be to go back into the lands that took what semblance of peace she'd managed to grasp, Alicia approaches the door and swings it open. On the other side Samantha stands, her arms crossed over her chest, foot tapping an uneven beat on the porch. She looks Alicia up and down before turning.

"Let's get going. I want to make it back before the end of the week."

Alicia watches the arrow fly true, cutting through the air with barely a whisper. The wind tugs it towards the left where it pierces into the milky eye of a Grey Blood. His head jolts back, near torn from his shoulders as he falls, crumbling to the mud with a splash and a gurgle.

Princess Samantha lowers the bow, breathing the damp air. Alicia stares at her for a long moment, beginning to understand how much the Dead Lands have twisted this girl into something else. But, knowing Muovea and the family she was born into, Samantha was forced to carry steel in her spine long before exile, just as Alicia was.

Alicia glances around them and squints through the gathering fog, the trees falling away to reveal a rolling landscape of hills and rock.

"Not much further," Alicia tells them.

Sam nods and directs her people to follow. "Stay wary," Sam says to the people around them. "The Greys could be in the fog."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she continues onward, her knuckles white around the strap of her satchel. Booted feet sink into the mud and she hopes that a hand doesn't wrap around her ankle and drag her down into the Reaper's den. The mist whispers of those who have died within it, dragged to wispy depths, eaten by the white and she fears they'll all be next.

Alicia hadn't expected to reach this place so quickly, but Sam has revealed she's a resourceful leader of the Commons. Her stables are filled with horses, and they have an abundance of carts ready and waiting for big hauls such as what they're hoping for.

Her eyes never stop moving, searching for monsters, peering into the shadows that the afternoon sun can't seem to pierce. She doesn't feel any safer when they step from the clasps of the forest, horses snorting and trudging through ankle-deep mud.

Seven of them emerge from the fog to climb the hill, four horses and a cart with them, prepared to take back what they can.

They reach the top of the hill, and Sam lets out a breath, the mill before them, stagnant and silent in the cold. Water rushes from a stream that cuts through the land, curving away from them, tumbling down rocks and into a crop of trees, aiding to keep the land sodden and swampy. Spindly trees curl for the old wood of the mill, trying to claim it as its own.

Alicia licks her lips and continues forward, the creak of old wood still turning in the water after all this time beckoning her closer, whispering to her the memories she buried here.

Raising her hand, Alicia touches her crimson scarf and tries to remind herself that she doesn't go by that name anymore, no matter how numb to the world around her she feels.

Sam raises a hand, fist clenched, and their walk stops. She studies the land before them, the quiet almost soothing if it weren't so deafening. All she can hear is her blood throbbing in her ears.

"Stay here," Sam orders, and she starts forward as hushed protests follow her through the mist, Alicia's stomach lurches.

"Stubborn woman," someone growls beside her before stalking forward. Alicia recognises the long hair of reddish tones and the polished revolver at her hip. Galya. Alicia hasn't had a chance to speak to her, not since the girl saved her in that forest with Oliver.

Alicia watches them with a deep frown as they approach the mill, knowing that this was all her idea and if anyone gets hurt...

She lets out a clouded breath and goes after them without another thought.

The girls disappear into the building, and Alicia hastens her walk, glancing back at the people who wait for them in the mist. Sam warned her that many of them haven't seen a fight in months, that the Commons have been relatively peaceful lately. Her people have been reluctant to leave their home, eager to forget what lay just beyond their walls. Sam warned Alicia that if they found a fight, it would be up to Sam and Galya to fight it.

Alicia understands not wanting to fight, she understands wanting to sink into a life of peace and naiveté. It's what she's been trying to do for four years. Others call it running away.

"Sam!" The sudden shout has her running, taking the stone steps to burst into the dark interior of the mill. The air within hits Alicia first, thick with mould. Rot coats her tongue and near chokes her. She splutters out a cough as she looks up at the landing above to see Sam grappling with a Grey twice her size. She's cornered, pressed against the railing of the balcony, her hands busy keeping the Grey's jaws from her throat.

Galya runs up the stairs, but she's too slow to reach them. Sam's pushed over the edge of the landing, a leg kicking out, shattering the teeth of the Grey. She's falling, and the Grey is tumbling after her.

Alicia reaches for the gun at her hip, but her hand grasps nothing but her shirt. It takes a single jarring moment for her to remember she hasn't carried a gun for four years. She thought she'd crushed that instinct to reach for it.

Sam slams into the ground with a cry, the crash of the Grey's body beside her shuddering the boards.

But it doesn't die. It claws its way towards Sam, feral groans rumbling in its chest, eager for warm flesh between its jagged teeth.

Alicia grips her satchel, searching for her knife, but the shot that shatters the air stills her hands. She looks to the Grey, sees Sam spitting dark blood and wiping it from her face before Alicia looks up at Galya, smoke curling from the revolver in the girl's hand. Galya shoves the gun back into its holster before leaping down the steps, rushing past Alicia to go to Sam.

Alicia can only watch with wide eyes as Galya helps Sam sit up and wipe the blood from her, checking her wounds and chastising her. Alicia can only watch with a spreading numbness as she realises if Galya hadn't been there, then Sam would surely have died. All because Alicia failed to act, failed to do anything but watch once again. Just like Kathryn. Just like her father.

The door bangs open, breaking Alicia's thoughts. Light pierces the dark, illuminating the scene, the blood of the Grey dripping between the floorboards.

"Sam!" someone shouts, pounding footsteps rushing towards them.

"I'm fine," Sam says, staggering to her feet as Galya grips her elbow.

"No, you're not fine," Galya says, her green eyes fiery as she looks at Sam. "You came in here alone like a reckless fool and nearly got yourself killed." Sam sighs, rolling her eyes, but Galya steps closer, lowering her voice. "You're their leader, Sam. They follow you, and if they see this angry, ruthless girl rushing into bad situations, they're going to start doubting you. The Commons are already fragile enough without your bullshit."

"I get it," Sam snaps, tugging her arm out of Galya's grip and winces with the movement, pressing her hand against her ribs. Galya just shakes her head and walks away, storming further into the building. "Well?" Sam turns on the man. "Start looking for supplies."

"Yes, ma'am." He hastily gets out of her presence, leaving Sam to stand there alone amongst the light that breaks through the holes in the roof. Alicia takes a quiet step back, not wanting to disturb the troubled look on her face.

"You didn't do anything," Sam suddenly speaks.

Alicia freezes. "Pardon?" she asks, hoping Sam isn't speaking to her, but those fiery eyes meet hers.

"You stood there and did nothing." Sam wraps an arm around her abdomen as she steps towards Alicia. "Do you even have what it takes to survive out here?"

Alicia presses her lips together. It's a question she's been asking herself, refusing to answer. She's tired of uttering lies. "I'm trying—"

"Why did you just stand there?" she snaps.

Alicia flinches, unable to meet her gaze anymore.

"Kathryn should have made it, not you."

The words are a blow to the gut that punches through the numbness within her. She gasps for air as she sees Kathryn dying before her all over again, gurgling on her own blood after throwing herself on the blade.

Kathryn should have lived. Her pa should have lived. Reyna should have lived. Alicia is the one with the secrets and the journal, not them. She's the one who takes and takes and they're the ones who suffered because of it.

"Sam!" someone calls from outside, taking the girl's heavy focus from Alicia. She's too broken to do anything as Sam bumps into her shoulder on her way back out into the light, Alicia merely rocks back on her heels and stares at the dead Grey Blood on the ground, discoloured liquid staining the floorboards.

Suddenly the weight in her satchel is too much and the need to get rid of every piece of herself, who she was, who she ever wanted to be, near swallows her whole.

Alicia leaves the building, ducking her head so she doesn't catch anyone's gaze, and moves towards the stream. She approaches the small bridge, memories leading her onward without her really thinking about it.

During the war, when refugees were plenty and the Reaper's Curse was just beginning to spread, Alicia was often hired to get people to a place where they could be treated medically and then moved into the safety of the capital, away from the war. The Costa mill was one such place of secrecy made to offer those people such things.

If she had been a decent person, she wouldn't have taken their money, the last scraps that they managed to take from the blood-soaked fields behind them. But she wasn't a decent person, and others continue to pay for that.

Alicia crosses the crumbling stone bridge, moss layering the rock and making it slippery to walk on. She barely noticed, her gaze set ahead on a tree swaying in the breeze in the middle of the wide clearing.

Making a beeline for that tree, Alicia finds comfort in its deep shadows, away from eyes that judge her for reasons she's not accustomed to. She had to learn a different dance in the palace, but this dance as an exile is one that might just break her if she doesn't let go of the things keeping her tied to the capital, tied to her family, to a life that will never be hers again.

She doesn't think, she just sinks her hands into the soft dirt under the trees, between the thick roots. Dirt catches under her nails, rocks tear at her skin, but she pays it no mind. Down she digs until her hand scrapes against something hard. Brushing away the dirt, Alicia drags out the small box within and pries it open with the knife from her satchel.

Inside is a bag and she opens it, tossing away the money and jewels until she finds the true value. Dirty fingers smear the parchment as she licks her lips.

After she discovered the tomb beneath Muovea, after Elena married the grand duke and the war was coming to its first blows, after Alicia took her first shot with her father's revolver, she knew she had to hide her ties to the tomb.

The map of the tomb was just one piece in discovering and understanding that horrid place, and both Elena and Alicia agreed the duke shouldn't have it.

Alicia procures the grand duke's journal from her pack, another piece to the mystery. A mystery that's no longer hers to unravel.

She shoves it into the bag, but her fingers brush against something. With a frown, she takes it out, and what she sees sends her stomach lurching.

Three smiling children look back at her, one of them seated in a cart made from scrapped wood, clothes far too big for her hanging off her skeletal frame. On either side of her are two boys, both bigger than her, just filling into their tall bodies. They stand proud, grins on their faces, beaming about their construction.

Her brothers were always eager to do something to keep busy, and to keep her out of the house and away from the shattered glass on the floor.

Lowering her head, Alicia presses the photograph to her chest and swallows the tears that burn the back of her throat.

She was doing it for them. Everything she did was for them.

But out here there's no chance of fighting for the things she once did. There's no chance.

So, why does she toss those items back into the bag and tuck them into her satchel? Why does she keep them? Why doesn't she bury them as she'd planned? Why doesn't she leave it all behind as she should?

She finds she has no answers for those questions, and that she doesn't have time to think of any when a shout from behind her has her raising her head.

As she looks over her shoulder, she witnesses people staring and pointing. She's quick to stand and approach them, crossing the bridge and watching as crates are dragged to carts. She's relieved to know they found the supplies, hidden in a basement.

"We need to move!" Sam calls, startling Alicia. She blinks, watching the others rush into motion, steps quickening in their hurried search for supplies, eyes straying north, over Alicia's shoulder. "Now!"

Alicia looks north too, trying to see what has them so panicked. Her eyes widen, and her breathing freezes in her lungs. Movement is lost to her as she tries to understand what she sees.

Alicia has never seen more than a few Greys clustered together, but even that terrified her, knowing how easily they'd tear her apart. She certainly never dared fight them.

But this...

"Get those carts loaded!" Sam continues to yell, storming back into the building. Alicia can't seem to move, fear keeps her stuck in place. Alicia knows no amount of medicine in Muovea will help with what migrates from the trees.

They never figured out how far the Reaper's Curse spread, how many were truly affected, at least they were never told. Muoveans were safe behind their cherished walls, they didn't care. But what now approaches...

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of Grey Bloods stagger towards them, a wave of death, of decay, possibly led by the Reaper himself. Their movements are sluggish, but their milky gazes are ahead, a marching army of the undead come to assault their enemies and get their revenge.

Mercy lies upon the Reaper's scythe.