Ignis groaned, pushing herself up from a cold, stone floor. Her head swam, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes from the violent, nauseating wrench of teleportation. The cozy warmth of the inn was gone, replaced by a damp, stale chill and an oppressive darkness that pressed in from all sides.
"Ugh... where is this?" she muttered, blinking rapidly as her draconic eyes began to adjust. The room was large, cavernous, and clearly man-made—stone walls, a high ceiling lost in shadow, the air smelling of mildew and old dust. It was a cellar, or perhaps a forgotten storehouse on the outskirts of town.
Her danger sense, sharpened by countless dungeon ambushes, flared a split-second before the attack came. A faint scuff of leather on stone to her left. She didn't bother to dodge or block. Instead, she turned her body slightly, letting the assassin's dagger scrape harmlessly across the hardened scales that subtly reinforced the skin of her shoulder. The blade sparked, failing to penetrate.
