Chapter 30: DD2 Chapter 024 – Daughter

Arilla didn’t look back as she fled the cavern and sprinted down the unlit hall. Sounds of violence echoed out from behind her; the concussive blasts of heat, light, and ringing steel told her everything she needed to know. 

Typh was still alive.

For how long that would remain true she didn’t know. A good rule of thumb was that the first level into a new rank meant an approximate ten-fold increase in power compared to the peak of the previous one a level below. It was an extremely crude measure for power rankings, far better suited for drunken arguments in a tavern than for any kind of battle strategy. She reminded herself that Typh was a dragon, the most powerful creature she had ever met. 

The most powerful iron-rank creature I’ve ever met.

The traitorous thought came and went swiftly, along with an all too clear image of the steel-rank Orca they had so recently fled from. Her memories of their underwater flight were still so very vivid. The feel of Typh’s arms as she clutched against her chest. The sound of the dragon’s cries when their arcane shield bent and warped beneath the whale’s almost playful touch. She told herself that the knight couldn’t be that strong, that Typh was just fighting a mere human like her...

….Except Arilla knew that the Queen's Alchemic Guard were not just mere knights, they were the finest fighters in the realm. Each one was trained practically from birth to survive the trials they were put through and to make the most out of their heavily documented class. They were given the rarest alchemical potions, salves, and runic-arms to make them the deadliest killing machines that Terythia had to field. Alchemic Knights broke sieges, brought monsters to heel and were their greatest deterrent against an Epherian invasion. Her nationalistic pride rebelled at the idea that a steel ranked member of that esteemed order could be stopped by a single iron rank, regardless of how strong their species was.

And Typh had said it herself, she was a deformed runt of a dragon—the very weakest of her kind. 

It was an unpleasant thought, one she wanted to deny, but couldn’t. She had been taught from a young age to honour and respect those brave few who gave up everything to join the ranks of the Achemic Guard, and now her former lover was fighting one of them, presumably to the death.

Arilla didn’t know what that knight was doing here, but it didn’t matter right now. She needed to focus on finding the children and getting them out. Whatever the church had planned couldn’t be good, but right now she was struggling to even see in the near-total darkness of these underground tunnels. Which reminded her of her most recent skill up.

*Congratulations, Slayer’s Sight has reached level 5. You must rank up this skill to progress it further.*

Slayer’s Sight - You may add this skill’s level to your effective willpower score for all purposes related to directly challenging stealth based skills, and illusion based magic.

Will become…

Class Hunter - This modification allows you to apply the bonus from Slayer’s Sight to directly challenge skills that hide or otherwise obfuscate true classes.

Dark Stalker - This modification allows you to see perfectly in the absence of light.

Mana Sight - This modification allows you to directly perceive mana.

Her choices were simple, and all held some appeal. While she had taken her time to select her most recent class, right now she didn’t have the luxury to dwell on her options. [Dark Stalker] was exactly what she needed, and so she chose the modification without a second thought. She experienced a mild tingle behind her eyes before the dark hall bloomed with not-quite-colour, and suddenly she could see perfectly in shades of greys and blacks that were able to somehow confer the true colours that lay beneath her new darkvision. 

She turned a blind corner and passed through a wide, crumbling archway that led into yet another large chamber. This one was lined with metal cages filled with the dishevelled faces of the poor and the young. Not a single class in sight. They were packed-in tight around the edges of the chamber, their youthful grubby faces contorted in fearful expressions while the near continuous sound of children sobbing resonated within the domed ceiling up above. 

Arilla couldn’t possibly count them all, but the large cages were filled to bursting. The population of the slums had been huge and uncounted, with only a rough estimation of the number of families living in squalor having ever been documented. She had been braced for it, expecting to see the sight that she now saw from the moment she had first entered the undercroft with Typh, but seeing truly was believing. If only one in ten of the children who had once lived in the slums now filled this chamber, then hundreds of missing children was a massive underestimate.

Father Mihalis was standing at an altar in the centre of a large runic array, flanked on all sides by a squad of templars sworn to the church. Their bronze-rank tags floated above their heads, an unpleasant reminder of what she could have become, had she looked the other way or taken the priest up on his offer weeks ago.

The array itself was etched deep into the stone floors, an intricate and somehow undulating pattern of runes carved into the ground that managed to almost mimic movement. A thick paste with a pungent odour seemed to waft out of the grooves where the arcane symbols had been painstakingly placed. Given the size of the chamber, and the runic array that dominated the open floor, even going so far as to creep up the walls in places, the sheer quantity of alchemical reagents used to empower the ritual must have been worth a small fortune.

...Like the one she had donated to the church.

Arilla bit her tongue and silenced her self-recriminations as she focused her attention on the templars. She looked past the children and their tears, refusing to be distracted by their plight as she studied the weapons and armour that she would soon be facing off against. 

Rune-etched longswords, heater shields and what looked like very thick runic-plate for a bronze-rank to be wearing. Her sword was obviously far better than theirs, but her armour was heavily-patched and largely missing in all the important places where scraps of chain and stitched leather held the few intact plates together. She was heavily outnumbered and poorly equipped. It was definitely not a fight that she wanted to pick, but when she let her tunnel vision expand to really see the children in peril, she knew that she had no choice.

Arilla had not been silent in her approach, between her panicked breaths and her heavy stomps, they had to know that someone had arrived, if not for how the whole chamber occasionally shuddered with the impacts from Typh’s distant fight. 

The ritual-chamber was dark, perilously so, and the warrior walked slowly towards the nearest set of cages where the children were kept, careful to tread softly while the templars slowly fanned out from the altar where Father Mihalis stood. They each had hand-held magelights tied to their belts that lit up the area around them in a pale red light, while the centre of the runic array was starting to pulse in a matching shade as the priest presumably began to charge it with his internal mana reserves.

Her new class screamed at her to charge into their centre, sword swinging, to try and cut a few of them down before they could react, but it was hardly a winning strategy. She was new to her rank-up, and her skills were still far behind her class level. If there was a way for her to resolve this without resorting to violence then she had to give it a try.

“Father, tell me that this isn’t what it looks like,” Arilla finally said, choosing her moment to announce herself.

“Arilla... I did not expect to see you again so soon... Especially not here,” Father Mihalis replied, looking momentarily worried as he looked to the bronze-ranked soldiers all around him who steadily began to converge on her. Their superior numbers must have given him some comfort as even while the cavern shook, the priest still smiled wide. “Of course this is not what it looks like.”

“Good, because it looks like you’re about to sacrifice hundreds of children on an altar for some arcane purpose,” she said with narrowed eyes as the templars grew closer, and she noticed the large ceremonial knife at the priest’s belt.

“Arcane purpose, no. Divine!" he said, his eyes wide with religious zeal.

“Of course you are….” she sighed, feeling so very tired as her feet fell into the first stance her sword tutor had taught her. Arilla readied her heavy blade for combat and wondered if she had prepared enough for this pivotal moment. Despite all of her guilt and depression, she had never stopped trying to catch up to the dragon she had once loved, and now she would finally be tested.

Had she done enough? 

Could she have trained harder? 

Would someone like Thearda be able to do better?

Her eyes drifted to the fearful faces of the orphans in cages, to the altar in the centre of the chamber, and finally to Father Mihalis’s wickedly curved knife.

“Low stakes,” the warrior muttered, and rolled her shoulders for one last time.

Before the magelights could reveal her, she pushed stamina through [Dragon’s Blade] and lunged. She practically flew over the ground, her feet barely kissing the stone as she raced forwards out of the dark and appeared in shades of red before the nearest templar. His magelight lit her up, and she heard the gasps of surprise that emanated from the cages that lined the chamber. 

Her literal captive audience.

When her overly-large sword that was levelled like a lance, ripped through the defences of the templar before her, she could practically see the hope light up in the eyes of the children as they came to realise all was not over for them yet.

Of course the templar did not die; her sword had penetrated deep through his gut, coming out the other side before he was tossed like a sack of hay when her shoulder checked his chest, but he was bronze rank. And like her, the templar wasn’t about to let something like a brief impalement take them out of the fight.

The one she had injured clambered to his feet, even as the remaining five closed, swords swinging, and it was all that she could do to desperately fend off their blows.

“You do not understand, Arilla! I have seen an Angel, and with her blessing, today we shall birth another anew! An Angel to care for and guard Rhelea from all the monsters who would do us harm!” Mihalis ranted.

“And that’s worth all these children’s lives?” she grunted, barely blocking a decapitating strike and accepting a large cut across her side.

"Come now Arilla, you are not so naive. These children are homeless orphans, they have no one to care for them, and the orphanage is already far past capacity. How many of them would survive the winter anyway? How many would disappear down backstreets never to be seen again? With the Traylans in charge of the city the orphanage has already lost the majority of its funding. It was only through spending the last of our coin, and from the help of strangers equally devoted to our cause that we could afford this one chance to birth an Angel so very soon!”

“There are other ways to protect Rhelea, the adventurers—”

“The adventurers care only for themselves!” he snapped. “You and I both know it. Between them all there is enough power and wealth to have cleaned up the slums decades ago! We could have built schools, raised monuments to the gods, but they are selfish, greedy sinners, one and all!”

“That’s not true! What about The Shining Swords, The Knotted Stave, The Moonsteel Company! Rhelea is full of adventuring parties who do good for the sake of doing good!” she argued, nearly taking a sword through the throat for her trouble.

“You are not a child Arilla. Those parties you named have the power to change things, but what do they do with it? Chase steel rank? Throw a few chalkoi the way of the starving poor when it stares them in the face? Few are like you, but one Angel will be enough to protect Rhelea’s poor. I have seen it myself, seen the good work being done in Pallas, and soon all of Astresia.”

A chill ran up her spine as she processed those words.

“This is happening elsewhere isn't it?”

“Why of course, Creation cannot be saved with just one Angel no matter how powerful. Even now missionaries travel from Pallas bound for cities all across Astresia with the divine knowledge of how to summon a new Angel to this plane. Each success weakens the barrier between Creation and Heaven until soon Angels shall step forth into our world as easy as we draw breath.”

“I’ll stop you.” 

“You shouldn’t. This is a holy mission, and you are a member of the faithful. You should be joining us, not standing in our way. A few orphans destined to die in exchange for a new start for us all!”

“You’re insane.”

“I am holy. My name and the names of the templars you see so fit to battle shall be known throughout history as the midwives who ushered this Angel into Creation.”

“You’ll be known as just another load of crazy old fools, who thought you were special.”

“Enough playing. Kill her!” Father Mihalis ordered, looking past Arilla and at the templars she had been struggling with.

Arilla cursed under her breath as the attacks began increasing in pace and intensity. Whatever had held them back before abruptly dissipated, and Arilla was left fending off attacks from six warriors of equal rank and greater skill to her.

She fought for everything she was worth, while steel blades scratched along the edges of her patched armour, and her skill-hardened skin was finally tested against the might of forged blades. Runes flared and guttered out inconsistently as the arcane protections that only partially covered her heavily damaged full plate were quickly overwhelmed. 

Despite being outnumbered she gave as good as she got. Her sword tore through armour and flesh with minimal resistance. The blade in her hands functioned as an extension of herself as she lost herself to the flow of the fight, the mad precarious dance of it. Her class growled in delight while she relished the fight, aware that a single mistake could very well spell her end as she channelled every half-remembered sword lesson and brought it to her defence.

She was aware as she stepped, thrust, and parried that hundreds of eyes tracked her movements. That the faces of the children who were once so hopeful upon her arrival were gradually growing disheartened as they watched how her armour was split open and blood hemorrhaged out of her side. A part of her found herself looking for Tamlin amongst the sea of expectant faces, the idea that that one familiar person might impart some new wave of strength. 

She was a Noble Slayer. She knew that on some level she was better than any one of the warriors facing her, but against six? Well she understood why Father Mihalis didn’t look worried.

This would be an ideal point in time for Typh to come in and save her, splattered in gore and wearing another one of her stupid, impractical dresses. Arilla could imagine the dragon looking bored as she tore her way through the opposition, but the cavern continued to intermittently shake, and she knew that this time there would be no timely rescue. She was on her own. 

...Or was she?

Arilla thought back to that conversation she had with Typh about how children were used in rituals, and as she looked at the sea of orphaned faces obscured behind layers of dirt and steel bars she remembered the power in their hopeful gazes. She remembered the reason why they had been gathered in this chamber. For exactly the same reason that their deaths would empower the ritual circle carved into the floor, their innocent naivety was some she could use. 

Children believed hard. They believed that their imaginary friends were real, that their teddy bears could talk back to them, that if they were good they would get presents, and if they were truly excellent then maybe their fathers who had cast them aside would come crawling back.

Slowly but surely, Arilla was losing ground against the templars, and she needed to be stronger. Months of quiet practice willing herself to surpass her system-bound limits had failed to evoke so much as a whisper of additional strength. But here, all around her were hundreds of children all looking to her with the hope steadily draining from their eyes. To win, she needed to be stronger than her stats allowed, and for that, she needed them to believe in her.

“I can do this,” Arilla said, far louder than she strictly needed to, her voice echoing throughout the large cavern.

“No, you can’t. Surrender, and I will let you see the Angel with your own eyes before you die,” Father Mihalis replied, but Arilla didn’t care, as her words weren’t directed at him.

Taking an extra step back to gain some distance from her attackers, she did the dumbest thing you could do in a fight. She took off her helmet. The young warrior smiled brightly as she looked across at the children, and shook her head causing her red locks to tumble down her back. The lie of the smile came easily to her as lies always did, but heroes always smiled in the stories, and she was trusting that like her, the poorest children in all of Rhelea had lived for stolen tales of heroic adventurers.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of this. Just close your eyes, and I’ll have you out of there before you know it,” she declared, emulating the confidence of every adventurer in every story she had ever heard.

She couldn’t very well ask them to believe in her, she could hardly believe that this was her plan, but as dozens of eyes clamped shut and tiny fists clenched in concentration, Arilla felt her steps lighten by the tiniest, almost imperceptible amount. Whether it was her imagination or not, she didn’t know, she didn’t particularly care, but she leaned into the additional strength wherever it came from and finally went on the offensive.

She stepped forwards abruptly and her zweihander flashed through the air, light in her hands as she cleaved the enchanted blade into a templar. Her skills pulsed in her chest and her class roared while she tore the metal kite shield in half, her blade carrying on uninterrupted as it severed an arm and dropped the first of her attackers to the floor.

Now it was five against one, and this time she felt rather than saw more eyes snap shut. She didn’t need to hear the words to know that throughout the chamber in ever-increasing numbers children prayed to her—not the gods—for salvation. That barely perceptible sliver of power grew as spurred on by over a hundred innocent souls, Creation bent itself in her favour. 

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It wasn’t the first time Arilla’s stats had been boosted; when Typh’s magic ran through her it felt feverish and hot, but this was like a cool breeze at her back. Every step and strike became just that little bit easier as she let herself take stupid risks, in the name of flair, and each time that it paid off she felt that belief in her grow, the burgeoning power in her limbs rising to match the hopeful expectations of her audience.

A sword whipped forwards going for her unprotected face, and she found herself laughing like a hero from the stories as, moving far faster than she had any right to, she slapped the flat of the blade away with her off-hand, and with the other she cut the templar down at the knees. She swung her heavy two-hander in one hand while a literal geyser of blood erupted from the templars’ severed stumps as they fell back on the floor, their pained shouts filling the large cavern. 

The others, clad in their runic steel, seemed wary of her now, each one of them hesitant to be the next to attack her. She couldn’t even blame them now that her strikes parted their magical protections and penetrated their defensive skills with apparent ease.

“Quit stalling! Kill her! For the Angel’s sake kill her!” Father Mihalis yelled, flying spittle evident to her skill-enhanced eyes even in the darkness.

Armoured heads turned slightly to acknowledge one another, the templars clearly knowing each other well, and checking in as they steeled their flagging nerves. Arilla laughed like a madwoman as she forgot her breathing techniques and swung her zweihander, the power behind her strikes forcing them to scatter at her approach as she left them no time to parry or block. The one templar who saw fit to take the chance was sent flying as a skill-empowered strike hit his raised sword and carried him rapidly through the air where he eventually collided with a cage, the impact clearly rattling him as he was slow to stand back up.

Temporarily reduced to three, Arilla darted forwards, her new skill showing her the fear in their eyes as she ran a templar through, and earned herself a significant stab through the chest in exchange. It was a deep wound, a powerful skilled strike that had pierced her breast and collapsed a lung, but Arilla was well versed with such injuries. 

As the templars watched in horror, she twisted her blade and ripped it out through the side of the man’s ribcage before she stepped forwards unfettered by the longsword still lodged through her chest.     

“Is that the best you’ve got?” she asked, not even wheezing.

It hurt like a bitch, and she had to stop laughing after she said her piece in order to spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor, but as she advanced on the two remaining templars she could see that the fight had gone out of them. Their religious zeal had fallen short in the face of her almost manic-fury. She felt giddy, invincible despite the sword wound. Her bravery in the face of death, while initially a desperate ploy to make use of the gullibility of children had morphed into something else. 

She felt like a God.

The two templars hesitated, taking one step back and then another. Arilla pounced on them, ripping them both in half with a single strike from her sword, their defensive skills failing as her enchanted blade overcame all resistance, and covered in gore she then advanced on Father Mihalis.

“Your plan is done. I’m turning you in to answer for your crimes,” she said, her voice strong and clear despite the pain in her chest, [Dragon’s Resilience] shining through as she stood unbowed and unbroken despite her grievous wound.

“No! You can’t, I have a destiny!” Father Mihalis pleaded unbelieving to what he had just witnessed.

“Destinies are for stories,” she said as she clapped him around the head, her mailed fist shaking loose a tooth and cracking a bone as he collapsed to his knees. “Now where are the keys to the cages?”

“I have them here,” Mihalis answered, retrieving a thick set of keys from within the folds of his robe before she dragged him towards the nearest cage. 

She threw his ceremonial knife to the side, as in the same breath, she removed the longsword whose handle still protruded from her chest. It came loose with a horrible sucking sound, and even with the belief of the children empowering her steps and her pain resistance skill she felt her knees go weak. Mihalis tried to stand, during this momentary bout of weakness, but she kicked his feet out from under him, harder than she intended as something important crunched and he screamed in pain. But she didn’t care. A twist in the lock and suddenly a cage full of children were free, although still far too fearful to step out from their cage.

“Four left,” she mumbled, more to herself than to anyone in particular. She saw Mihalis’s eyes dart to the side as another powerful rumble very nearly caused them both to lose their footing. “What are you—”

A blade burst through her chest.

The steel did not bring pain with it, but far more terrifying than that, it brought a numb cold. Arilla’s legs folded up beneath her when the blade was withdrawn, and she fell hard to the ground. Creation tipped sideways, and she tried to roll to her feet but realised that she could only move her right arm. Ice cold fear ran through her as she looked up at the faces of the children in the cage in front of her who were now backing away as the door slammed shut once again, sealing them inside.

“What in the depths took you so long?” Mihalis asked, anger in his voice as he recovered from his fear. “That bitch broke my leg, while you were busy recovering.”

“I’m sorry, Holy Father, it was a good hit. I was pretty rattled,” the voice was familiar, she thought she recognised it from her time in the temple’s kitchens, but without seeing the face she couldn’t be sure.

“Enough of your excuses, we’re the only ones left. We must start the ritual before mages from the surface get here. Whoever is occupying our friend was far too loud with their tracer spell.”

“Of course, Father. Let me help you to the altar.”

“I don’t need your help,” the priest snapped. “Just bring me the first street rat. I’ll make my own way. We have well over a hundred to bleed here, and it looks like this cavern could collapse at any moment.”

“Of course, and Arilla?”

“What about her? She’s dead.”

“No, she isn’t. Or at least, there's been no system message.”

“Oh, well cut her head off to be sure, and let's get on with this.”

Well shit.

It seemed odd to hear someone discuss executing you, but she had solidly lost the fight so she supposed it was to be expected. Not that it seemed like it was ever particularly winnable, with hindsight she had done remarkably well for herself. Maybe she should have stayed to help Typh instead, but as the chamber continued to shake intermittently, and rocks fell from above she knew that she would have just got in the way. Arilla was good, maybe even great if today’s battle proved anything, but she wasn’t exceptional, and so long as she stood in Typh’s shadow she would never be able to shine.

Arilla heard the sets of footprints move to stand over her. She didn’t regret any of her actions. With maybe the exception of a few drunken indiscretions, she felt like she had lived a good life, even if it was about to be cut painfully short. She idly wondered if there was something wrong with her, this was hardly the first time she found herself willing to accept her end. It probably said something negative about her self-esteem that she wasn’t railing against death as it came for her. 

Still, something seemed wrong. 

It took her a moment to realise that there were ‘sets’ of footprints gathering around her, rather than just one or two. Then the screaming started, first the templar, who was soon followed by the children. From her vantage point on the ground facing away from the action she could only guess at what was happening, but as the final sword blow never came she found her curiosity more than piqued.

Partially paralysed as she was—she still had the one arm—she braced her grip against the ground and pushed. Painfully slowly, Arilla rolled over, and she ragdolled onto her other side. Her sideways view on the world was suddenly inverted and she was faced with a fresh set of horrors.

[Shade level 7], [Shade level 7], [Shade level 7], [Shade level 7], [Shade level 7].

With burning green flames for eyes, the five dead templars shuffled forwards, each one of them lunging for the survivor who backpedalled in a panic. They were not a serious threat for the templar, but in the confines of a shaking cavern, with ritualistic markings covering every surface next to your cages full of human sacrifices, she could see why the surprise reanimation of your friends and peers might cause you to panic, rather than lash out with your skills and sword.

The templar fell backwards onto the ground, and the unliving corpses fell on top of him. Cooling flesh, encased in runic-metal clawed at the templar, the shades too low in level and thereby intelligence to wield any of the numerous weapons scattered throughout the chamber. Some of the corpses were knocked loose from the minor impact of the fall, but all of them clawed at him, desperate in their undead hunger for still-living flesh.

Arilla knew that she should be afraid, that she could very well be next, but as she saw the templar go for his sword she reached for him. Her grip around his wrist stopped him short, his arm bucked against her as he tried to fend off the corpses one handed while they slowly prised his steel armour off of him. Metal creaked for a long time while he struggled, before dead fingers finally plunged through the gaps in the steel and into the man’s vulnerable flesh. The holes in his armour widened as it was steadily disassembled, and oh how he screamed. Children cried, snivelled and vomited while Arilla grit her teeth, focusing all of her might on her one still working arm as she held the templar’s sword arm in place while he was slowly devoured on the ground right to her.

Eventually his screams stopped, and soon after that so too did his struggles. The system did its due diligence in letting her know about the six people she had killed today.

*Congratulations on defeating a level 56 Temple Guardian, experience is awarded.*

*Congratulations on defeating a level 55 Temple Guardian, experience is awarded.*

*Congratulations on defeating a level 60 Temple Guardian, experience is awarded.*

*Congratulations on defeating a level 54 Temple Guardian, experience is awarded.*

*Congratulations on defeating a level 57 Temple Guardian, experience is awarded.*

*Congratulations on defeating a level 54 Temple Guardian, experience is awarded.*

*Congratulations, Noble Slayer is now level 51.*

*Congratulations, Dragon’s Blade is now level 41.*

*Congratulations, Dragon’s Compact is now level 40.*

*Congratulations, Dragon’s Mettle is now level 39.*

…

*Congratulations, Dragon’s Mettle is now level 43.*

*Congratulations, Dragon’s Resilience is now level 42.*

...

*Congratulations, Dragon’s Resilience is now level 45.*

She let the notifications wash over her while she waited for her turn to come, but instead of tearing into her vulnerable flesh, the corpses with gore dripping from their hands and from the gaps in their helmets shambled slowly towards the cages. For a moment she felt something within herself stir as her panic snowballed, but instead of feasting upon the defenceless children a ring of keys was passed through the bars, from one blood-soaked gauntlet to a child’s hand.

The crowd of orphans parted and Tamlin strode forth. He smoothly unlocked the door of the cage and stepped out onto the bloody ground of the ritual chamber. The boy proudly displayed a necromancer tag and a new level that for his age would make him a prodigy destined for greatness, if his class didn’t demand his death. He looked down at her with burning green eyes, as vivid and bright as the flames in his puppeted corpses.

“Arilla, where is Typh?” the necromancer demanded.

She wanted to laugh, it seemed she was destined to always be the side character in someone else's story.

“She’s fighting. Pretty sure the tremors are her unless she broke something she shouldn’t have," Arilla said from her vantage point on the floor. “Can you help me up?”

“I can, but you have to promise not to kill me first.”

“Really?”

“I’m a necromancer. Just because I play with corpses doesn’t mean I want to be one.”

“Fine. I promise. Now help me up,” she said, finding the words harder to say than she anticipated. Her ingrained revulsion at what the boy was surprised her as she saw how the other children had given him a wide and silent berth even in the tight confines of their shared prison.

Two corpses bent low to drag her to her feet. The experience was as demeaning as it was unpleasant.

“Will you heal?" he asked.

“Eventually," she said, hoping that her statement was true even as [Dragon’s Resilience] pulsed a gentle affirmation.

“Good. Leave the keys with someone, we need to go find Typh.”

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