Drakovitch moved slowly through the dungeon, the only sound the steady drip of water from the ceiling. But in his mind, that drip transformed, growing heavier, louder, becoming the relentless, pounding drum of a storm from decades past.
The memory struck him.
He was a boy then, dressed in a flawless school uniform. He had been walking through the lower districts when a small, freezing hand suddenly clamped onto his polished shoe. He had frozen, his heart hammering in surprise.
From the shadows of a rain-pooled alley, a girl had crawled toward him… Her face was a mask of grey mud, slowly being washed away by the downpour to reveal skin that was bruised a deep, sickly purple. Her lips were drained of all color, trembling as she tried to form words that wouldn't come.
"Help..."
