I'm frozen.
Renna is charging at me, pickaxe raised, her face illuminated by the lantern light she's carrying. The shadows make her look monstrous. Predatory.
I should move. Should raise the shovel. Should do something.
But I can't.
My body won't respond. My legs are locked. My arms hang uselessly at my sides. The shovel feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
I can't breathe.
My chest is tight. Air won't come. My vision is starting to blur at the edges.
She's getting closer. Ten feet. Eight feet. Six feet.
The pickaxe is aimed at my chest. At my heart.
I'm going to die again.
And then—
A smell hits me.
Peppermint.
Sharp. Clean. Cutting through the panic like a knife.
It fills my nose completely, overwhelming everything else. The earthy smell of the mine. The dampness. The sweat. All of it replaced by pure, intense peppermint.
And with it, my lungs unlock.
Air rushes in. My chest expands. The tightness releases.
The goddess.
She's controlling my nose. Helping me breathe.
My left leg moves on its own. Not frozen anymore. Not locked. It shifts, planting itself firmly on the ground. Stable. Ready.
My right leg follows, positioning itself.
My stance steadies. My grip on the shovel tightens.
She's helping me.
Renna is four feet away when I move.
The shovel comes up just in time, blocking the downward swing of her pickaxe.
CLANG!
The impact reverberates through my arms. The force nearly knocks me off my feet, but my legs—my goddess-controlled left leg especially—hold firm.
Renna pulls back and swings again.
I dodge left. The pickaxe whistles past my shoulder.
She swings horizontally.
I duck. The point scrapes against the stone wall behind me, sending sparks flying.
My reflexes feel different. Sharper. Like my body is responding faster than my brain can process.
My left leg especially—it moves before I consciously decide to move it, positioning me perfectly to avoid each strike.
Why is the goddess helping me???
I swing the shovel at her, aiming for her side.
She dodges easily, too fast, and her hand shoots out to grab the shovel's handle.
I try to pull it back. She doesn't let go.
We struggle for a moment, both gripping the shovel, pulling against each other.
And then she swings her pickaxe with her free hand.
I barely see it coming. Just a flash of metal in the dim light.
I throw myself backward, releasing the shovel to get away.
The pickaxe point tears through my hoodie, ripping the fabric across my chest. I feel the cold metal graze my skin—not deep enough to cut, but close. So close.
I stumble back, breathless.
Renna has the shovel now, holding it in one hand while gripping her pickaxe in the other. She tosses the shovel aside carelessly. It clatters against the wall.
"You're better than I expected," she says, breathing hard. "But you're still going to die."
She charges again.
I dodge right. Her pickaxe slams into the wall where I was standing, chipping off a chunk of stone.
I dodge left. Another swing. Another impact against the stone wall.
She's relentless. Swing after swing after swing. Each one aimed to kill. Each one missing by inches.
My body moves on its own, guided by instinct and whatever the goddess is doing with my left leg. Duck. Weave. Sidestep. Jump back.
We've moved during the fight. Shifted positions. Now I'm closer to the lantern she set down. Closer to the tunnel leading back.
And she's between me and the dead end.
I need to run. Need to get past her and escape.
But the moment I turn to run, she'll strike me in the back.
Everything slowed down.
Renna pulls back for another swing. A big one. Putting her whole body into it.
And for just a second—just a fraction of a second—there's an opening.
Her guard is down. Her torso exposed as she winds up.
Something stirs in me. Not thought. Not decision. Just instinct.
My left leg moves first.