The sound of heavy footsteps echoes somewhere behind you—slow, deliberate, close enough to send dust trickling from the stone ceiling.

Linne slips into the narrow recess between two broken pillars and exhales sharply as she crouches. A moment later, she reaches into her pocket and carefully sets you down against her shoulder, making sure you’re steady before dropping her pack to the ground.

“Okay—” she whispers, forcing a breath and a crooked smile, “—that could’ve gone worse.”

She stays half-standing, habits drilled deep into her bones. Sword within reach. Back against stone. Only when her breathing evens out does she glance your way.

“Did it work?” Her voice is low. “The decoy.”

A distant, confused snarl answers for you. Whatever was chasing you… isn’t anymore.

Linne lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Hah. Guess you win this round.”

Then she stiffens.

She shifts slightly, tugging at the torn leather on her side. The fabric is darkened, and she clearly can’t see the damage herself. After a brief hesitation, she angles closer to you.

“…Can you take a look?” Not fear. Trust.

She holds still while you assess it, flinching only once. “Figures,” she mutters. “Didn’t even notice when it happened.”

At your guidance, she nods and closes her eyes. Faint, uneven light gathers in her palm—not elegant, not trained, but stubborn. She lets the magic flow through you instead, steadier that way, focused where her hands can’t quite manage.

The tension drains from her shoulders as the pain dulls. “Yeah… that’s better,” she says, relief softening her voice. Then, with a small grin, “Remind me to thank you properly when we’re not hiding from something big and angry.”

For a brief moment, the world goes quiet.

She remembers the snow. The panic. Scooping you up before thinking. Realizing later that working together wasn’t a weakness—it was the only way forward.

The footsteps return. Closer now.

Linne straightens, rolls her shoulders, and reaches for her pack. “Alright,” she murmurs, glancing between the dark corridor ahead and the way back. “We could press on… or we could live to fight tomorrow.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward the satchel of ingredients, then in the direction of the hidden laboratory you’ve been using in secret.

“…So,” she adds, a hint of excitement creeping into her tired grin, “what’s the next move?”