Duffy appeared in the empty grand hall of Winchester House in a flurry of blue ribbons and desperation. He turned around on the spot in search of his brother, and his heart sank at the heap of bloodied tailored cloth at the foot of the great staircase leading to the upper floor. He bounded across the black and white marble flagstones and dropped to Leopold’s side.

“Leopold!” He shook him by the shoulders. “Leopold, can you hear me?”

The bedraggled mess stirred, blood oozing from his mouth and dried red marks crusting around his ears. He lay on his back, shirt torn open and extensive bruising telling the bard all he needed to know about his outlook.

“I, I don’t feel to good Duffy.”

“You look fantastic, you’re going to be okay.” Duffy examined Leopold’s injuries with a concerned look on his face. The bruising went down to his abdomen, and blood oozed through the sleeves of his shirt where ice shards had lacerated his skin.

“You, are a terrible liar.”

Duffy chuckled.

“Yeah. You look like shit.”

“That’s better.” Leopold craned his neck to look at Duffy. “Did you find her?”

“Ruby? Yes. She’s fine. Clarissa ensured she could reincarnate when the Tap break through. She said something about keeping her promise, so I guess she’s not a completely a heartless bitch.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Leopold coughed, and more blood, fresher and brighter than the congealing clots on his cheeks poured freely.

“Okay. You’ve got one chance. I’m getting Arden.”

Leopold thought about it for a while, his skin turning pale and clammy and his hands trembling as his heart fought to pump blood through crushed veins and broken bones.

“Okay,” he said flatly.

“Are you sure?” Duffy knew what blood magic cost.

“Do it.”

The bard frowned and pushed up and away from Leopold. He gave him one final look of re-assurance and clashed his bands together.

Leopold tried to sit upright, but the second he pushed down on the panels and curved his spine agony erupted across every inch of his chest. He fell back, head cracking against the tiles and reminding him that trying to move would be a very bad idea. He stared at the ceiling and tried to count the carvings in the beams to distract himself.

“This is a fine mess,” he grumbled. He breathed snotty breaths through his nose as his throat filled with fluid and stole his ability to pun his way through the pain.

The hall fell silent, save for strained and gargled breaths. Long ago, his butler and wife would have come running down the stairs to his aid, but his empire had long since crumbled and his bank account emptied. He reflected on all the times he had died over the years, and smiled weakly for being blessed enough to have never died alone. Until now. He felt his heart rate drop slowly, each reduction pushing him closer to sleep and a slow, dark dive into nothingness. One final breath exhaled marked his death, then silence and regret filled the household.