The rain pours down on the pale marble of the cathedral’s upper courtyard, as well as shards of glass from the structure’s holy mural, and the body of its most ardent archpriest.

  The ground cracks upon initial impact, but she rebounds and steadies her course after skipping across the granite. When she finally stops, her stance wavers and she buckles down to her knees. Her weapon is the only thing keeping her up, her armor is battered, her insignias are tattered, and her blonde hair is a mess of blood and sweat and now, rainwater.

  She takes a breath and hooks both hands around the halberd's shaft, heaving herself to a stance ready for what comes next. She looks around for the enemy. This fiend—this monster—is as effortless as he is relentless. She thinks of what else she can do, all her spells are baited and used, her mana is near depletion, and the only feasible option is her haste spell, but its most powerful iteration is the only thing that can keep her on par with the heretic.

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  She has no choice now. She says two prayers to Ymos; one to heal her, and another to hasten her. The god answers. And when she opens her eyes, the owl is there; he is cloaked in the same blood, wear, and tear as she is. She can see the cracks in his avian mask, the blood and soot staining his pale amber-feathered hood, and the limp he walks with, standing at least fifty feet away from her. Hope and faith are what she clings onto now, and it is what guides her as they charge towards each other, weapons drawn, and with bloodlust eyes.