Nonetheless, compressed and embattled as it was, the tiny spark that constituted his inner being refused to be quenched. Trapped in a prison of raucous, warring emotions, it watched and waited.

A sea change: with a sudden shock of awareness, he was himself again, and his flailing limbs ceased their rebellion. As full awareness returned to him, he realised that he was lying in a noxious, malodorous pool of his own making. He tried to stand, filled with disgust, but his legs and arms felt as heavy and dead as stone pillars.

He looked up to see Prioress Lizaveta standing over him. Several locks of greasy, white hair had escaped from her starched wimple, and her face was ashen. To his eyes, she seemed almost dead on her feet. For the very briefest of moments, he felt a surge of black despair.

It's gone! Please, Reverend Mother, bring it back!

He crushed his momentary horror into a tiny mote, forcing his true personality to reassert its dominance over his being.

You'll never break me, hag!

The triumphant thought blazed into life, seeming to illuminate the darkened corners of his abused psyche. The knowledge that he had withstood her vicious emotional assault strengthened and succoured him. Only his brutal Questor training had given him the strength to resist.

Grimm smiled, finding sufficient strength in his arms to drag his body out of the disgusting mire of bodily humours. Rolling over onto his front, he managed to push himself up into a crouch, although his legs were too weak to support him fully.

He laughed; a hoarse, hacking sound. “I still hate you, Lizaveta,” he croaked through chapped, dry lips. “You've lost."

The Prioress raised her head a little, and turned to face him, her eyes glazed and lifeless.