A Dance of Steel and Courage

The stench of sulfur and something ancient, something like burnt stone and old fear, filled my lungs. Agnes. The name itself was a roar in my head, a tremor in my bones. We stood at the precipice of her domain, a gaping maw in the mountainside that belched smoke and the promise of a fiery end. Behind us, the silence of Keal’s defeat still echoed, a hollow ache where Roric’s steady presence used to be. Lyra, bless her stoic heart, had managed to bind Bowen’s gash with a strip of her cloak, her face pale but her hands steady. Hope, though, her green eyes wide and fixed on the cavern’s entrance, radiated a quiet resolve that, even now, made my own heart do a clumsy little jig.

“This is it,” Bowen grunted, hefting his axe. The steel glinted dully in the oppressive gloom. “No turning back now.”

I nodded, my own sword feeling like an extension of my arm, though my palms were slick with sweat. “We go in together. Like we planned.”