The concrete floor of the secret bunker beneath Master Dalgor's workshop felt ice-cold, yet it was nothing compared to the chill of dread creeping up Dayat's neck. The room was stifling, illuminated only by a single, flickering mana lamp and the sharp, pungent scent of machine oil. Dayat paced restlessly among piles of scrap metal, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.
"Dol, don't die on me... don't get caught..." Dayat muttered repeatedly, like a desperate mantra.
Suddenly, the screech of secret hinges echoed from behind the tool cabinet. Dayat lunged for his Crossbow, aiming blindly into the darkness.
"Do not fire, Master. It is I."
Dayat nearly dropped his weapon when he saw Dola step into the light. She no longer looked like the elegant blue bride from Alaric's gala. Her gown was in tatters, scorched in multiple places, and her face was masked by dust and thick, crimson stains.
"Dola!" Dayat surged forward, catching her body just before she collapsed.
