The gust of wind that comes from disturbed air doesn't smother the flame she's lit, but it flickers as she wheels around, eyes huge, one darting from shadow to shadow and one unseeing gold. The hood of her cloak slips in the suddenness of her motion, thick, dark curls emerging, and though the tinder-box drops to the floor in her startle, she is swift enough to replace it with a long, thin blade pulled from somewhere hidden beneath the shadows in her cloak.

“What,” she says, to no one in particular, “the fuck.”

Maybe there's a reason no one has been in this castle. Her unease is clear, as is her bravado: the way she sets her shoulders, the way her eyes narrow. The fumbling way she reaches to grasp the lamp and take it from its place set down on a sideboard without actually looking sideways—

a minor miracle she doesn't just burn herself.

“I'm not frightened,” she lies to the darkness, her jaw firming as she holds the lamp out in front of her, moving forward.

It is entirely possible that she should be.