She wishes, oh how she wishes, that it had not come to that. That Adelaide had been right, that any of the others had been right. Herian has her pride, she has some measure of arrogance, she feels the aggravation when those she disagrees with are right and she is wrong, but not in this. Never will the loss of life bring joy to her, or satisfaction.

Ciri is thrown, Adelaide calls to her, and Herian grits her teeth as she strikes to shove one blade into the demon’s chest, immediately bringing her second hand to her spirit blade so she can put all her strength into a swing to cleave its neck in two.

Maker, guide me—

And woven into the prayer and her will and the ferocity of the swing is the desperate hope that it will strike true, that the sword in the chest will have been a distraction, that she can keep anyone else here from coming to harm.