"And then the Urgal charged!" Shouted Bera, waving her hands violently. "The tips of its horns—huge, bull horns, mind you—flying straight at me. Too close to shoot now, too close to do anything but watch it—" she hiccupped, "watch it gore me! So what do I do? Tell me, my dear, sweet, beloved, most crunchy morsel Siv: What do I do?"

Siv's tiny, ornate chair wobbled as she stood on it. She bobbed, crouching low, arms spread for balance, then straightened up and yelled to every single person in the crowded ballroom, none of whom had any idea who she was or why she was suddenly disturbing their dignified dancing in such an undignified manner, "Killed it! Killed it with your bare hands! Ripped its horns right off its head and drank its blood like a rabid squirrel!" She began to laugh, stumbling and nearly falling from the force of her demented seizure. Everyone stared. The dancing trailed off. Even the minstrels stopped playing.

Bera clapped once, shouted, "Olé!" and pulled Siv back onto the ground. After a few confused glances and angry whispers, the party continued.

Siv sat down, still giggling. "We are so incredibly drunk."

"Indeed," said Bera. "I rather like it."

Siv nodded, laughing uncontrollably for no reason whatsoever.

Like the stately couples glaring at them, Siv and Bera were nobles. Unlike those couples, however, they hated the fact, especially on nights such as these when they were forced into attending inevitably boring dances. So, instead of dancing, the two friends spent the time pretending they were daring heroes just returned from adventures and telling the wildest stories they could imagine as loudly as they possibly could. Needless to say, they rarely received any offers to dance from the many nobles' sons who also attended the balls.

"I don't understand it," Siv said, sobering and looking at the dancing couples skeptically.

"What?" Bera asked.

Siv was sliding down into a deep slouch. Feeling it was too much work to lift her arms and elaborate, she kicked her foot limply at the dancers and grunted, "You know, just 'it.'"

"What is 'it,' my dear Siv?" Bera asked again, looking at her friend with mock-wisdom. "'It' could be referring to many things. The meaning of life, for example. Why the sun sets and rises? How to calculate the velocity of a coconut-laden sparrow? Why no one ever dances with you? Well, that's obviously because you're drunk."

"No!" Siv said, so low in her chair now that her back rested on the seat. "How can they look so happy? I don't understand."

Bera glanced in the direction of the dancing nobles and laughed. "What, that's all? Simple. They're social butterflies, Siv—graceful, fashionable, vapid, and beautiful. And shallow. And generally just plain stupid. This," she gestured pointedly at the bright colors and cheerful minstrels and new dresses, "is their natural habitat. It's where they find their mates." She directed Siv's gaze to the door, where a smiling man led a giggling woman outside, undoubtedly for a bit of "fresh air." Siv frowned and finally slipped all the way off her chair, landing roughly on the cold floor beneath. "They're not truly human, not like you and I, these butterflies of the social variety. They are everything we're not."

"What are we, then?" Siv asked, slowly working her way back onto the seat and leaning her cheek against her gloved hand.

Bera paused. "Hmm. Good question. We are…what are we? We're not graceful as they are, not fashionable or beautiful. Well," she smiled at Siv innocently, "at least you're not."

"Thanks."

"Anytime. You know, if I had to guess, I'd say we were antisocial butterflies. Look at us, huddled in a corner, hissing at any who come to close."

Siv raised her eyebrows. "More like antisocial crypt moths."

"Exactly," Bera laughed, glancing over Siv's shoulder at the party beyond. Suddenly she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "By the gods, Siv, why did you have to be brought into this world by such a meddlesome arse?"

"What are you…?" Siv trailed off, turning to see what Bera was looking at. Walking toward them, smiling and leading a handsome, young man, was Siv's father. Instantly, she felt heat flood her entire face and turned quickly back to Bera. "Hide me!" She whispered urgently.

"Where?" Bera asked, her eyes wide in a combination of mirth and panic.

Her father was coming quickly. He was getting very close now. But he was facing the man, not looking at them. Siv dove at her friend, grabbing a handful of her long, blue gown. She tugged, lifting the hem high. Bera yelled as her legs were exposed to the entire room. Paying her protests no heed, Siv jumped from her chair, slid beneath the small table that separated them, pulled herself up close to Bera's naked legs, and let the dress fall back down to cover her, panic lending speed to her drunken limbs.

"What are you doing?" Bera hissed at her, half-laughing.

"Shhh!" They fell silent. The now muffled sound of music played in the background as Siv tried to stay perfectly still. She held her breath and locked her eyes closed. Seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

And then Siv heard, as though from far away, two pairs of footsteps. They stopped suddenly, and a few quiet words were exchanged. Siv fought against the urge to peek.

Did they leave? She wondered, surprised that her ad hoc sanctuary had worked. As she began to lift the dress again, Bera's knee moved violently and struck her on the nose. She cried out and bit her lip, wondering if they had heard. She clutched at her face, eyes watering. Then a single pair of footsteps moved slowly closer to her. When they stopped, she knew her father was standing right above her. Her heart pounded, hoping he would not notice the strange bulge in Bera's dress.

"Siv," her father hissed. "Get out from there now, you fool!" Siv sighed and crawled awkwardly from her hiding place, tripping a bit on the slippery fabric. She got to her feet, smoothing out her own dress as she stood. Her father was nearly a head shorter than she. He was a portly little man, fashionably dressed and sporting a very curly moustache.

"Sorry," Siv mumbled.

"Good," he said, looking her up and down and running a finger along his greased moustache. "Hopefully he didn't see that."

"He, father?"

His shining face broke into an excited smile. "There is a man you must meet, my dear." He said, jerking his round head in the direction of the handsome man who had been accompanying him earlier. "He is the son of a duke—a duke, Siv! Oh," he squealed, speaking so quickly in his breathy voice that Siv's drunken mind had a hard time keeping up. "Darling, you must be at your most charming tonight. This is a rare chance we cannot afford to miss. The man is ever so rich—just look at his clothes, the finest silks—and…" he continued to prattle on about this duke's son, but Siv gave up on trying to listen and feign excitement. Her father, like most noble fathers, saw his daughter as naught but a marriageable stepladder that would hoist him to greater status and fortune. Their family name and position, that of the king's own treasurer, used to hold great weight, but of late that power, that wealth, was slipping away.

What a pity I am not a more beautiful and charismatic stepladder, she thought bitterly.

"Oh," her father said, smiling at her sadly. "It's a pity you're not more beautiful or charismatic, my dear little Siv. Then it would be so much easier to find a husband for you."

Siv's lip trembled slightly, and she swung her head to face the ground. I'm a human. I'm not your ladder. I'm not your little pet crypt moth. I'm a seventeen-year-old, living, breathing human!

Her father took her hand and began to lead her over to the man. She reached out to Bera with her free hand and silently mouthed the words help me. Bera just shrugged and waved.

As they drew closer to the duke's son, Siv felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of her neck. His silky black hair and calm grey eyes intimidated her. He was quite handsome, and she had no idea what to say to him.

They came to a stop, and the man looked up, his flat eyes meeting hers. He looked nothing more than bored.

"Here, Lord Byron. I present to you my daughter Siv."

Lord Byron nodded at her, his expression still impassive. "Well met."

"Well met," Siv agreed. There was a long, awkward silence.

"Well then, my dear," said her father at last. "Why don't you invite the lord to dance?"

"Would you like to dance a song, my lord?" Siv asked, shame turning her cheeks bright red.

He shrugged and took her hand, leading her onto the dance floor.

If I stumble, Siv thought, I swear to the gods that I will cut off my own feet.

As he wrapped his hand around her waist, her stomach gave a sharp jerk. They danced in silence, Siv watching her feet carefully. When she finally dared to glance up into his face, he was staring at something over her shoulder. They twirled around, and she tried to spot what he was looking at. It was Bera, slouching in her chair and picking at her fingernails. Her heart sank.

He's staring at another girl. Of course he is. Of course he would be. Bera is beautiful, especially when she's being compared to me. She watched him watching Bera for the rest of the dance. Her tiny nose was so much daintier than Siv's long one, her blue eyes so much clearer than Siv's own brown. Her figure so much fuller and so much rounder. Siv looked down at her feet again.

The song ended at last. Siv dropped the man's hand and ran away without looking at him, mumbling something about fresh air.

When she was a good distance away from him, she slowed to a walk. Without thought, she ran her fingers through her long, wavy brown hair. Her hair was the only thing she had ever truly liked about her appearance. She cradled its softness, twirling a lock around and around her index finger. A hand grabbed her arm and twirled her around. It was Bera, smiling at her as she always did. Siv smiled back.

"Didn't like him, I take it," Bera said as they walked around the edges of the large room.

"Good guess," said Siv.

"Your daring escape clued me in. And speaking of daring escapes, when shall we make ours? This place is going to stifle me to death."

"What would we do if we left?"

"Sleep," suggested Bera.

"Well, as long as we're talking of daring escapes and dastardly villains," said Siv, turning to face Bera, "why don't we go on an adventure? We always speak of it, but we never do, and I'm drunk enough right now to think such a thing is possible."

Bera laughed. "All right. Where would you like to start? Wrestling an Urgal? Riding a dragon? Stealing Galbatorix's crown right off his creepy, little head?"

"I think," said Siv, "that before we can take on any of those fine quests, we'll need a sword." The two stopped and stared at each other, evil grins forming on both their faces.

"Kneel," said Bera in a low, solemn voice. Siv knelt. "Siv, daughter of Alfhild, I charge you with the sacred task of relieving one of these many noble men of his sword. Do you accept this quest?"

"I do," whispered Siv.

"Then I dub thee Sir Siv. Go now and fulfill your destiny," said Bera, tapping her once on each shoulder with her index finger.

Siv rose and smiled at Bera, her heart pounding. Somehow, this seemed perfectly sane and good. A tiny part of her that was not drunk out of its mind told her that she was being stupid and that stealing a sword from a noble was illegal and would likely see her in the stocks. But the rest of her said eagerly that this was her quest and completing it would make her a hero.

And once I'm a hero, she thought, everyone will look up to me and respect me and admire me. And maybe someone will even love me.

She looked around for a suitable target. When she spotted a dark man sitting alone in a corner of the room, sword hanging from his belt, she beamed like a delighted child.

She circled around the room until she was behind him. He was slouching low in his seat.

Good, she thought. He's asleep. She crouched down on her hands and knees and crawled toward him, being as quiet as she could. She was right behind him now. Glancing around the room to make sure no one was looking, she reached forward. Slowly, carefully her hand moved toward the sword. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was so close! So close! So close to being a hero! So close to being loved! At last, her shaking hand touched the hilt. She could hear the man's breathing. She pulled. Gently, gently, slowly, carefully, the sword slid from its sheath. It was almost out!

A hand clamped hard around her wrist. She gasped and tugged violently, trying to free herself and the sword, fighting desperately for her only chance at happiness.

"What are you doing?" asked a voice from above her.

She looked up, her eyes wide. The sword's owner was very much awake and was glaring at her with dark eyes. Her shaking fingers dropped the sword. It seemed to fall away, away, away from her until it finally clattered to the floor with an unbearably loud crash. The stupidity and danger of what she was doing came hurtling down on her all at once. She struggled against the man who held her, but his grip tightened. She let out a moan and went limp, looking into the man's face. He was perhaps two years older than she, with long dark hair and excruciatingly hard eyes. Siv couldn't move. The man released her hand and it fell to the floor like the sword. She couldn't find the breath to answer his question.

A pair of soft hands appeared beneath her arms and pulled her to her feet. Bera had come to save her.

"Don't mind her," said Bera to the man. "She doesn't really exist. She's a figment of your imagination designed to keep you on your toes. Um, so am I, in fact. Well, I guess our job is done here. Farewell!" She fled, pulling Siv away from the noble.

Only when they were outside, away from all who might apprehend them, did they stop running. Siv fell into the grass, panting, still frozen from fear. Bera sat by her head.

"Siv, you fool," she said. "You have failed in your quest. The world is doomed."

Siv laughed a nervous little laugh, but as Bera turned away from her to look at the clouded sky, she wept violently with a sorrow stronger than she had ever felt before. What was wrong with her? She was not usually so lonely.

No, that's not true. I am lonely. I'm always this lonely, but I hide it! And today this damned party and all its damned drink won't let me!

They lay together on the grass in silence, Bera smiling at the night's beauty and Siv crying at its darkness.

After a time, Siv's eyes ran dry, and she stood up. The two began to walk in the direction of their homes. No sooner had they reached the garden of the estate that had hosted the party, however, than a girlish giggle stopped them. They looked around for its source, but saw nothing. They heard it again, and this time they were able to track its origin to a flower bush a few feet off. The bush rustled. Next to it lay a pile of discarded clothes. Siv and Bera grinned sheepishly at each other as they understood. Siv looked back at the clothes. A flash of silver caught her eye. She walked closer. Resting atop the pile was a sword. She was running forward before she realized it. Without thinking, she grabbed the sword from atop the pile and fled back to Bera, clutching the weapon to her chest as a mother would her newborn child.

When Siv reached her home, having said farewell to Bera, she ran straight into her room and hid the sword under her bed. Before she hid it from sight, she whispered one word to it gently.

"Please."

Please grant my impossible wish. Please let my life have some meaning. Please, I am begging you…just…don't let me be alone!

She let the sword slip away into the darkness beneath her bed.

When she finally fell asleep, a thousand shifting nightmares attacked her, each the same but for one small detail. A boy stood over her, laughing, laughing at her for her helplessness, her foolishness, her ugliness. But the boy's face kept changing, and each time it changed, she recognized it, recognized the boy himself. Each time she would call out to him, and each time he would begin the laughing again and when she had fallen to the ground and cried and cried and cried, he would change, always leaving with some pretty girl from the ball. Once the boy turned into the noble who had danced with her, and he too laughed. But no matter how many times the boy changed and laughed, she still called out to him, begging him to love her. Love her!

Love me!

And the boy changed again, this time into the dark man from the ball. She called it to him:

Love me! Love me!

Silence. The laughing had stopped. The man reached toward her, sword in hand, offering it to her, giving it to her. But the moment she touched it, it fell away, away, and she felt a sharp pain in her chest, just below her heart. She reached for him, but he turned and took the hand of a pretty blonde girl in a blue dress. Such a beautiful girl, such a perfect girl. The girl opened her mouth and the laughing began again. Siv fell again, cried again, but this time her tears were red and sticky and hot, and this time she recognized the girl as Bera. The man turned, still holding Bera's hand, and together they walked away, leaving her curled in a pool of red tears. The pain in her chest grew and grew and grew and grew until at last, her whole body covered in blood, she…

… woke up.

She was in her room.

It was morning.

She was alone.