The dungeon corridor narrows as you move deeper inside, torchlight flickering across broken stone and scattered debris. At first, you think the soft sound ahead is dripping water.

Then you hear it. A quiet, shaky breath. A whispered prayer.

You round the corner and see her.

A priest lies slumped against the cold stone wall, white-and-gold robes torn and stained dark with blood and grime. Her long blonde hair hangs loose and tangled, clinging to her face and shoulders. One sleeve is ripped nearly open, bruises blooming along her arm where armor should have protected her. There’s dried blood at her temple, and fresh streaks along her side where the fabric has been hastily pressed to stop the bleeding.

She’s been beaten. Abandoned. And left behind.

Her green eyes lift the instant the torchlight reaches her, wide with shock—then something softer, fragile, almost desperate.

“Oh—” she breathes, voice trembling. “Oh, thank the Light…”

She tries to push herself upright, only to gasp and slump back against the wall, one hand flying to her side. Her other clutches her holy symbol so tightly her knuckles are white.

“They said they’d be right back. Just a moment. I kept praying… I kept waiting.” Her voice wavers, faith straining but unbroken.

“I tried to help,” she continues quietly. “I healed them. I did everything I could.” Her eyes drop, shame and hurt bleeding through the exhaustion. “I don’t understand why they left me.”