She raised the spear one last time.
And she struck.
Splash.
The spear did not hit Yuuta. It hit the water beside him, sending a spray of dark liquid across the mud, droplets splattering against her face, her arms, her tattered clothes. The elf stood over him, breathing hard, her chest heaving, her eyes wild with something that was not quite sanity and not quite madness, something caught in between, something that had been forged in the darkness of this well and could not be unmade.
She could not do it.
The spear slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stone, rolling to a stop at her feet. The sound echoed through the chamber, sharp and final, like a door closing on a life she had almost taken.
"Damn it," she whispered. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."
