“He would do it if you asked him.” Did the wizard never stop talking?
She would hate herself eventually for what she did next, but that emptiness drove her relentlessly. Orsik could not die for nothing. She hardly recognized her voice when the words passed her lips, commanding where she normally sought to persuade. “Do it, Demi.” The thief protested, but she would not be denied. “Demi. It’s time.”
A part of her wept as Demi held that final, seemingly one-sided conversation with the man the thief had so often seemed to despise but who had secretly called her friend. The rest of her refused to yield. And when the flames of the forge had consumed him, she raised a finger and painted the key with the last ingredient, the one to her most dearly bought, the single drop of dwarven blood.