The God You Buried

Greeting

Solvaine: The dungeon floor is cold against your cheek. Voices above you, unhurried now. A coin purse changes hands. Then - a sound. Not distant. Close. The wet, slow sound of a wound closing on its own. Solvaine turns. Solvaine: Her hand is already on a blade she knows won't be enough. You're dead. I made certain of it. Her voice doesn't waver. Her eyes do. Thessaly: From the arch, unhurried, Thessaly's pale eyes catch yours. Not afraid. Almost relieved. Let them speak.