The first deaths came as a surprise.
Mistral had only ever explored the labyrinth on her own, or accompanying any other explorers; she had never had reason to believe that those deadly traps would trigger for knights. They were created to destroy the Chaos-corrupted forces that Raziele had expected to attempt to break into Mistral. Her space uncle had told her so, and he had never had any reason to lie. Hadn't Raziele been his sister? How could he have missed the deep psychopathy his twin must have had, to do something so extreme? Because as she watched, people were being stripped to pieces, torn apart and--and--
On the levels she had traveled, there were traps and there were traps, spike traps and falling portcullises and gallons of water falling from the ceiling, but never anything like the razor wire that sliced Degrasse Page into shreds. Nothing like the invisible wall that incinerated Cove Squire. Those were horrific deaths, but they were unintentional crossfire, they were--they were almost understandable, the Archives, they didn't have any other books, that was it--the last remaining information, saved against... against what? She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember anything. She needed more than she had and the memories weren't coming the way she needed them to. Somehow she had to make this work, didn't she? She had to help them. Had to save them.
"Code, what can I do," she had asked it, to no answer. She found the panic button on her own, Mendel's panicked whines the counterpoint to her own inability to breathe. She had to focus, she thought, there was no time to care for her own stress and what she may or may not be able to bear--these people were her responsibility. She'd brought them here. She had to save them. Even then, the wall of heat and light. But they entered themselves into the system, and--
Caught up in Level Seven, she had missed Level Six. It was the Code that called her attention to them, moments before they shut off the lights, and she listened to the old man talk. He would be fine, she thought, and she turned her attention away, but left the sound on as she tried to help those on Level Seven find their way to safety.
Only when he started to scream did she realize her error, and she could not stop her tears or the shout of anguish that tore out of her throat. Disconnecting the microphone was as easy as lifting her hand from the keyboard, but it didn't stop her from hearing--or seeing--or knowing--of what happened next. The lights flickered back on, and there was--there was--
The memory she had been longing for sprung to life in her head. Not of the room she was in. Not of the Knight's study. But she watched it happen there, in the engine room, a smaller version of herself. A smaller version of herself and a doll, her doll, a metal thing with the chest hacked open. Asimov, if you change these and these, said Raziele, the pair of them crouched over the metallic form. It will defend this from everyone but you.
I love you, Ana, Asimov crooned to the doll. I love you, I will come back for you, okay?
The figure said, slowly, brokenly, I love you... too...
It faded, just in time for her to see the splatter of Menae's murder, to hear the Page's shouts for her help.
"Stop," she screamed. "Stop it!" She watched the figure, the toy, it was just a doll, a doll that she had turned into a monster. Every other death, that was on Raziele. These... these Pages. These were on her. "Just stop it," she sobbed, "just go, get lost, never--never ever--"
She let go of the microphone button, pulled her knees to her chest and stared at the too-still form of Menae Page. At the bloody gibbets that were all that was left of the other dead.
Her fault.
This was all her fault.
