The Dark flowed through her fingers like a thick stew, chock full of lumps and bumps of proto-nightmares. She sifted them in her fingers, looking for just the right blend of rage and sorrow. Too sharp, too bitter, too quiet, too– Ah. She pulled it from the flow of Dark and held it up to the moonlight. Sparkling rage that seethed and burned, frigid sorrow that bound it cold and tight. Yes. Tonight the last Knight of Felador would fall and nothing remained to stop her.

Except…