Dexmon Drakenfell had spent thirty minutes convinced his father, best friend, and his mate were all dead.
So when his mate was delivered to him and his best friend came in a moment after, relief hit him like a goddamn brick. Both were in rough shape, but they were alive.
The question remaining was how bad of shape his father was in.
Because Dexmon had been in the infirmary, his father most definitely stepped in for him. No question. The old man got dumped through a portal onto a volcanic lake crawling with dark-magic squids and vampires, and the guilt was currently using Dexmon's stomach as a chew toy.
He wasn't exactly a spring chicken. Bad knees. Bad back. A morning stretch routine that took eleven minutes and sounded like someone stepping on bubble wrap.
The door opened.
