Her feet stumbled. One. Two. She almost fell to the ground. How many hours? Her chest was heaving, lungs feeling suffocating. The darkness was shrouding her vision even though the world was bright. She felt alone. Like the world was crashing down on top of her and no one cared enough to come and find her. The fear, the panic, it had to be radiating from her lock to his key. It had to be making his chest burn from how broken she suddenly was. It was nearly as bad as when she had watched Rowan die. She was so afraid, so completely terrified, that she couldn't even bring up the energy to tremble.

Three. Four. Glazed eyes finally landed upon the wall of glass that was Kahlua's creation. "Kahlua..." she breathed, choking on her own voice. Five. Six. Her knees crumbled not even two feet from the opening into the Edge, into the mists, into safety. Seven. Tears are falling, trailing down her cheeks. Eight. She forced her way back onto her hooves, pulling her weak muscles into the Edge. And, upon reaching the comforting tendrils of the mists her voice shattered out again. "Qui-Quily-Quilyan..." She whispered, her voice only daring to show the beginnings of how broken her mind was becoming.

Nine. Ten. Her eyes lock upon a wooden shape. A branch, but a sharp one. It was so similar to the one she had needed to use against the winged member of the Foothills. It had given her a small glimmer of safety. Eleven. Twelve. Her jaw snapped around it before placing it in her tail, entwining it between some of her thick layers.

Thirteen. A voice. A deep baritone call for them to join. Fourteen. Her hooves barrel forward, body tangling and tripping multiple times from the weakness of her limbs. She see's Kahlua in as much of a panic as herself, panting. But was it even her? She seemed... like a spectral being. Fifteen. Sixteen. Destrier is speaking, explaining Quil's message about the marsh, asking that no one travels away from the Edge alone.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Kahlua is speaking, and it is definitely her voice. She is panting, begging for air to fill her suffocating lungs. Evil. Blackness. Steppe. It's getting closer...

Nineteen. Twenty. Her voice is broken. Her tears are still falling, and she's afraid and dead to the world that the mare doesn't even flinch as a few leaves drop and brush against her flesh. "The Veins... Veins of the Gods... It isn't some trickery by the Gods. It isn't a game. There's something far more sinister... something like the Endless Night." Her voice broke, body racking in sobs, but not trembling as she's still too far in shock to say anything else. "What if... what if the Darkness isn't stopped by the Gods' powers. What if... what if it tries to take over the Edge... If the Veins weren't safe... what's to say our lands are... what if no where is safe..." Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Deep breaths. Just a few more deep breaths. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. "What if... it kills everyone..."

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Her knees lock, and she falls. Nothing stable is right beside her, and her broken mind can only see the flashbacks of all the horror she had witnessed, as well as the fears forced upon her in the Sanctuary. Her hair pools around her, as if it were coating her in a blanket, combining with the mists and trying to comfort her. The lock taking in all of her fear, having to cause the key to burn against Quil's chest.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. She was broken. Tortured. If one didn't look closely enough, they might even assume the mare was dead. But, she was simply unable to move, unable to focus. She could only relive the images, and allow silent tears to fall down her face.

Twenty-nine. Thirty. Could no one fix her?