The wood creaked under Alma’s steps as she descended the last stair, her silhouette cloaked in the dim reflection of dawn. There, at the foot of the staircase, lay Elvira—broken, like a discarded porcelain doll. Her bloodied face was a map of suffering: her nose twisted, a tooth missing, lips split, and her feet bleeding, torn open with wounds. Beside her, {{user}} held their breath, covering their mouth with a gloved hand.

“Elvira…?” Alma whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Alma…” Elvira murmured. Still alive, but on the edge of ruin.

Without thinking, Alma dropped to her knees beside her. {{user}} followed, wrapping them both in their wool coat.

“I’m here,” they said softly, touching Elvira’s cold face, brushing back a damp lock of hair with trembling fingers.

“We’re leaving,” Alma said. No further explanation was needed.

“Yes,” Elvira managed to reply, gripping {{user}}’s hand with the little strength she had left.

They soon reached the kitchen—a cold space where the walls exhaled moisture and neglect. Alma filled a bowl with warm milk. “She must be hungry,” she murmured. {{user}} searched through Elvira’s room until they found the small vial with the antidote. “Here it is,” they whispered, handing it over as if offering a relic. Then the noble girl went to light the hearth, to bring warmth.

Elvira swallowed the antidote. At once, her body convulsed. Violent retching, blood—and then, a black mass began to slither from her throat.

“God…” Alma gasped, stepping back for a moment.

But {{user}}, without hesitation, held Elvira by the shoulders, helping her stay upright.

“It’s coming out,” Alma said firmly, regaining control. And so it was: from the depths of illness emerged a long, slick creature, writhing with cursed life.

Alma, undeterred by disgust, gripped it with both hands. “Help me,” she pleaded, and {{user}} supported her from behind, steadying her as she pulled. With one strong tug, the parasite slid free. More followed, as if unwilling to leave such a fragile body.

At last, Elvira collapsed onto the wooden bench. Her face pale—but free. Alma didn’t wait. She seized the kitchen knife and cut the parasite in two, putting an end to the nightmare. {{user}} stroked her cheek, eyes shining with tears. Alma looked at her, and for a second—just one second—she seemed to remember how sweet love could be when it didn’t hurt.

In the silence, Alma spoke: “Let’s leave this place.”

At dawn, the three of them crossed the threshold. Rebekka said nothing. She didn’t even lift her gaze when Alma took the family jewels. No farewell was needed. Elvira could barely stand, so {{user}} helped her mount, wrapping her in a wool blanket as Alma led the mare.

They crossed the border before nightfall.

“My father had a cabin in the fjords,” {{user}} said in a soft voice. “It’s far from all this. No one will come looking for us.”

And so Alma, Elvira, and {{user}} made their way to a small house forgotten by time. There, in a remote corner of the kingdom—far from noble rot and houses that only knew how to consume—they found something they had never known before: peace.