"Now you try," Mimi said, pulling her hand back, her own palm glowing faintly with leftover mana.
"Same thing—mana to your fingertips, soft, not hard. Don't clamp down on it. Touch my wrist—I scraped it on a jagged stone earlier, when we were mapping the corridor."
Hannah nodded, pressing her fingertips to Mimi's wrist, a small scrape raw and red on the pale skin, the stone having torn through the thin linen of her sleeve to leave the flesh broken and bleeding a little.
She closed her eyes, breathed, and let the golden mana drift to her fingers, soft and slow, like snow falling.
A faint gold glow bloomed between their hands, warm and bright, and Mimi gasped, her hand jerking a little, surprise in her eyes.
"That's—that's stronger than my Minor Mend. It's already closing up, the bleeding stopped."
Hannah pulled her hand back, and the scrape was indeed fading, the redness gone, the skin smooth and unbroken, only a faint white line left to mark where it had been.
She stared at her fingertips, the golden glow fading like embers dying, and a small, surprised smile tugged at her lips.
This wasn't weakness. This was another tool. Another way to fight. Another way to survive. Another way to keep the people she fought beside her alive.
Ren's growl was soft, amused, in her skull, a rumble like distant thunder.
'Finally. You're starting to see it.'
The group moved forward then, Mimi teaching Hannah as they went, the lessons interspersed with the sharp, tight tension of dungeon travel—every step a gamble, every shadow a threat.
Mike would spot a tripwire strung between two stone pillars, his sharp eyes catching the glint of wire in the faint light,
Bart would hack it down with his axe, the metal cutting through the wire with a sharp snap, Mimi would cast a quick Light Weave to press against the stone walls,
checking for false ones that would swing open to reveal goblin nests, and Hannah would practice her spells—Spark of Light, hitting stone after stone,
the golden bolts growing more controlled, less explosive, the charred marks shrinking to the size of Mimi's, the jolt up her arm fading to a faint tingle; Minor Mend, patching up a cut on Bart's knuckle from where he'd hit a goblin's skull,
a scrape on Mike's cheek from a poison thorn, the mana growing easier to channel with every touch, the golden glow blooming and fading like a heartbeat;
Clean Spell, a quick flick of her wrist that left Bart's axe free of goblin blood and grime, Mike's bowstring uncoiled from the dust that had clung to it, her own dagger hilt wiped clean of the sweat and moss that had built up, the golden light fading as quickly as it came, no fanfare, no show.
She still fumbled—her first attempt at a fireball left a small patch of moss smoldering on the wall, the flame sputtering out before it could form a proper ball, only a few embers floating to the ground; a Clean Spell left Mimi's staff glowing gold for ten minutes, the mana unspooling slower than it should have, the runes on the oak glowing bright enough to cast small shadows—but she was learning. The frustration in her chest faded, replaced by a quiet determination, a hunger to learn more, to master this wild, golden magic that was hers, that no one could take away, that fit her as well as her dagger, as well as Ren's presence in her skull. The fighter in her wasn't gone. It was just learning a new trick, a new way to stand her ground.
They'd been walking for an hour, the corridor sloping slowly downward, the air growing colder, the moss thicker on the walls, when the first goblin struck.
It came from the dark, a small, scrawny thing with matted brown hair stuck to its face with grime and blood, yellow teeth bared in a snarl, a rusted dagger in its gnarled hand, and it lunged for Mike, who was at the back of the group, his bow drawn, his attention fixed on a crack in the stone wall ahead.
Mike spun, arrow loosed in a blur of motion, and it hit the goblin in the chest, the iron tip piercing its ragged leather tunic and sinking into its heart, the creature falling to the ground with a shrill, gurgling scream, its dagger clattering to the stone floor, the metal skittering away into the dark. But the scream was a signal.
A call. A feast bell, rung for the pack.
More goblins burst from the shadows—dozens of them, small and fast, their eyes glowing red in the faint light, their weapons glinting: rusted daggers, poison-tipped spears whittled from bone and wood, clubs wrapped in barbed wire torn from old guild wagons.
They swarmed the group, their high, shrill cackles echoing down the corridor, a sound that curdled the blood, and the fight erupted, brutal and fast, the kind of dungeon brawl that left your blood pumping and your hands shaking, that made you taste iron in your mouth and feel the weight of every kill on your soul.
Bart charged forward, his axe swinging in a wide arc, cleaving a goblin in two at the waist, the creature's blood spraying the stone wall red, its upper body falling to the ground, still twitching, its hands grasping for the axe that had killed it.
Mike loosed arrow after arrow, each one finding a mark—an eye, a heart, a throat—goblins falling to the ground with shrill screams, their bodies twitching and going still, the arrows sticking out of them like pins in a map.
Mimi raised her staff, chanting a quick incantation—Aqua Barrier—and a wall of water shot up between them and a group of goblins with poison spears, the spears sinking into the water with a soft splash, the poison dissolving into nothing, the water turning a faint green before clearing again.
She flicked her wrist, and a blue Spark of Light shot forward, blinding a goblin that had snuck up on Bart from behind, its dagger raised to strike his unarmored back, and Bart turned, his axe swinging, and hacked its head off with a single, brutal swing, the head rolling away into the dark, the body collapsing to the ground.
Hannah fought with a dagger in one hand, magic in the other, a new kind of fury in her veins—one that wasn't just for survival, but for mastery, for the thrill of using both her hands, both her skills, to stand her ground.
She slashed a goblin's throat with her dagger, the cold steel cutting through flesh and bone, the creature falling to the ground, its hands clutching at its neck, and flicked her wrist with her free hand, a golden Spark of Light shooting forward, blinding another goblin that had lunged for Mimi, its spear raised to stab her in the side.
She ducked a poison spear, the tip grazing her shoulder, the cold metal tearing through her leather tunic and leaving a small cut on her skin, and pressed her fingertips to the wound, a golden glow blooming, the Minor Mend closing the cut instantly, the pain fading to a faint tingle.
She spun, slamming her dagger into a goblin's chest, the steel sinking to the hilt, and cast a quick Minor Mend on Mike's arm, where a goblin's club had hit him, the bone bruise fading under her touch, the man grunting in surprise and gratitude before loosing another arrow.
The golden mana flowed through her now, easy and fast, a river in her veins, and Ren fed on it, his presence a warm weight at the back of her mind, his invisible claws raking at goblins that snuck too close,
his fire a faint flicker that incinerated a poison spear mid-flight—small, subtle, nothing that would draw attention, nothing that would make the others question, nothing that would reveal the dragon in her skull.
This was fighting. This was her fighting. Dagger and magic, gold and steel, hunter and mage, merged into one. No rules, no boxes, just survival, just strength, just the will to keep going.
The goblins fell, their shrill cackles dying into gurgles and screams, their bodies piling up on the stone floor, blood and guts soaking the moss, the stench of iron and death thick in the air, choking and cloying.
It was over in five minutes, the kind of fast, brutal fight that left the group gasping for breath, their weapons slick with blood, their armor dented and scuffed, their skin streaked with grime and gore.
Bart leaned against his axe, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps, Mike's bowstring slack in his fingers, his arms trembling from the effort of loosing so many arrows so fast, Mimi's staff glowing dimly, her blue Light Weave flickering, her mana all but drained from the Aqua Barrier and the sparks.
Hannah stood in the middle of it all, her dagger in one hand, her free hand glowing with a faint golden light, and she stared at the pile of goblin corpses, her chest heaving, her eyes cold and empty, the way they always were after a fight.
She didn't feel sick. She didn't feel sorry. She felt alive—sharp, bright, awake, like she'd been half-asleep her whole life and only now opened her eyes.
"Nice work," Bart grunted, wiping goblin blood from his face with the back of his hand, the rough leather of his gauntlet smearing the gore across his cheek.
"That Spark of Light of yours is a lifesaver. Blinded three of the little shits before they could get close."
Mimi nodded, her breath coming in short gasps, and she pressed a hand to her chest, feeding the last of her mana into her Light Weave, which had dimmed to a faint wisp, barely enough to see by.
"You're a natural. Even with the wild mana. You could outpace me in a month, easy. Irregular or not, you've got a gift."
Hannah shrugged, wiping her dagger on a goblin's ragged leather tunic, the blood coming off clean, the steel glinting in the faint light.
"Just another way to fight." She sheathed the dagger, the leather of the sheath sliding over the steel with a soft snick, and the golden light faded from her fingers, the mana settling back into her chest, a warm thrum, a heartbeat.
"Let's keep moving. The sooner we clear this level, the better. The dark's not getting any friendlier."
The group agreed, their voices rough and tired, and they moved forward, the air heavier now, the stench of death clinging to their skin, their armor, their hair, a second skin they couldn't scrape off.
The corridor twisted to the left, the stone walls growing darker, the moss thicker, slimy underfoot, the floor sloping down into a lower chamber, the air growing colder, the stench of goblin musk fading into something else—something sharper, more metallic, a faint tang of fear that made Hannah's hunter's instinct prickle at her skin, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.
It was the smell of pain. Of terror. Of living victims, trapped and hurting, their cries muffled by stone and fear.
Mike stopped first, his hand raised, his bow drawn, an arrow nocked, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, his head tilted to the side, listening.
"Quiet," he whispered, his voice tight, barely audible over the drip of water from the stone ceiling.
"I hear something. Crying. Someone's crying."
.
.
.
To be continue...