The camp was quiet when they returned.
The fire girl was crying. Her name was—something. Raven had already forgotten. She was sobbing against the middle-aged healer's shoulder, her body shaking, her robes torn and stained with dungeon filth and her own virgin blood. The healer patted her back with a motherly hand, but her own eyes were glassy. Fucked-out. Still leaking his seed from both holes.
"He is dead," the fire girl wailed. "He is dead. I saw him. The sword. The blood. He is dead."
The other adventurers gathered around. They saw the body. The young man with sandy hair lay on a makeshift stretcher. His chest was caved in where the blade had pierced. His eyes were open. Empty. His mouth hung slack. The blood had dried black on his tunic.
Everyone was shocked.
"How?" a boy whispered. "We were just fighting. He was beside me. How is he dead?"
The fire girl sobbed harder. "It was a monster. A hidden monster. It came from behind. It killed him. I tried to save him. I tried—"
