Across the den, the young mage's trembling eyes followed his every move. The last hope she had was being hacked apart before her. If he fell, she knew what would happen to her… to all the women still caged.
Her shaking hands pressed to the ground, dragging her body through the filth.
She crawled, silent, toward a corner half-hidden by rubble.
There—half-buried in ash—was her staff.
She reached it, clutching it to her chest, whispering the first syllables of a spell she hadn't dared to attempt in months. Her voice was quiet, almost drowned by the roars and metal.
A pale glow began to pulse beneath her fingers.
Oliver didn't notice at first.
He was too busy dodging death—each step slower, his muscles screaming. A shallow cut opened across his thigh; another nicked his shoulder. He staggered, the hobgoblin's laugh echoing through the chamber.
Then, suddenly—heat.
A rush of warmth through his veins.
He blinked.
