She opened her eyes as she was being dragged backwards, away from Powell. Her hands had lost contact with him, and he was not fully healed!
But she was dragged roughly to her feet by some raging deformed creature. It held her by the throat above the ground as it laughed manically. "Stupid little woman. No female from the backwaters will ever defeat me!" Valen's eyes widened in horror as she realized the broken and bloody mass was Ansalon. He threw his head back in sadistic laughter as he closed his hand tighter around Valen's throat.
She gasped for air as her vision blurred and her consciousness turned inwards: inwards to her *fire* and her power. She brought all she could muster out to one point as she fought for breath and consciousness. Wading through the muddy mist, she struggled to lift her hand a little higher, higher, higher, until.
She placed her open palm abruptly on Ansalon's forehead and his cackling stopped. He stared wide-eyed in horror as winds rose in a cyclone around the two. "What? What is this?"
Valen just smiled groggily and whispered, "Goodbye."
The two were thrown apart, Ansalon enveloped in white-hot energy and rising high into the air above the remains of the wood before exploding into so many splinters of light. Valen was caught in the backlash and landed next to Powell. She fought oblivion a while longer as she reached for Powell with all her senses. But she couldn't find him. He wasn't there. She was alone.

Funeral bells rang out on the clear winter morning at the old monastery as the coffin was lowered into the waiting hole. The earth would swallow this last loved one of hers, at last granting them their eternal rest. They would be pleased to know that though the war was not over, Ansalon, the black dragon, was dead. Their death had been avenged.
For the first time in months, Valen let her sorrow be drained from her in tears. A comforting hand gripped her shoulder.
"Come Valen, you know things can only be better now."
Valen looked up gratefully at her husband. "Yes, I know. Thank you, Powell."
He smiled gently and gathered her into his arms. "I know your family," nodding to the coffin, "would be so proud of you." He held her away from him and looked at her. "I am."
She smiled gratefully and squeezed his hand, a hand marred only by a few scars, nearly as faint as her own. She smiled and placed the hand against her face before falling into an embrace.
"Why, hello there, folksies. Aren't we a pretty picture?" Valen opened her eyes and grinned down at Fayethfenwen, leaning on crutches. Faye looked between the two and rolled her eyes, giving them a sporting wink. "I think I'll just be over this way," she said coyly before hobbling towards the talkative Gail.
Valen smiled at the retreating figure, watching those she owed so much. Then she smiled up into storm gray eyes, happy in Powell's arms.

Wyslen sat bent over maps in his tent as autumn winds grabbed at the fabric, howling to be let in. His army's progress had been slow these past four years. But that didn't matter. He had the Northern Provinces under his control. And what did it matter if he avoided the South for a few years?
But which way would his force travel now? East and West both promised great profit in victory, each well protected. But he had time. There was no one that would stand up to him. Except the South, but they didn't matter at the moment. Still, which way? Which way. He pulled a coin from his pocket and flipped it into the air, catching it deftly and placing it on the table. He smiled and began to plot his army's course. He was getting to like not working for mages. Decisions were made much more sensibly.