Mansemat stood in the darkness, waiting, his eyes closed.
"It's quite hopeless, you realize," came Tisiphone's voice. "The castle turns against you, you tire, and I do not. You know this to be true."
The Dark Lord made no reply.
"She does not hate you, you realize," noted Tisiphone. "Why, she even thinks it's a pity that it has come down to this. But then, that is how it goes. In the end, there can only be one Dark Lord of the Plains of Dread. And you have been weighed, and found wanting."
Mansemat slowly turned, readying his blade.
"My, my, that gets a response," said the blind lautist with a chuckle. "What is wrong, Mansemat? Does it wound you to think that you will no longer be... 'Your Magnificence'?"
Mansemat raised the Sword of Night.
"Oh, it does," whispered Tisiphone. "My, my, my. Not quite the shining glorious warrior of chivalry you so do like people to imagine, are you? In the end, just a..."
Mansemat suddenly twirled half away around and struck, feeling the too-familiar sensation of the blade hitting home. The gasp and slow thump of a body hitting the floor were merely further confirmation.
He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. The witch lay on the floor, clutching her wound. "How...?" she said at last, her voice weak.
"You thought I trusted in my eyes, and my ears when I could not use them reliably," answered Mansemat. "But in battle, I trust my instincts over my senses." He frowned quietly. "Would you like me to...?"
She shook her head. "I... took my chances, and the rewards that came with them," Tisiphone murmured. "I'll take my death now."
Mansemat sheathed Murgleys in silence.