There were broken walls on one side of the tomb. This break led to a ladder, and the ladder led to the surface. To a cliff that could easily punish a misplaced step with certain death.

Would-be certain death. As long as a dream-drow failed to intervene. Again. I was not tempted to test her kindness. Or attention.

The facade of the crumbling temple greeted us, confirming my suspicions this was a holy place. A forgotten holy place. Not merely an abandoned grave. Perhaps it was both, claimed by others for purposes unplanned for.

Regardless, it was a place of import. Long ago, should its decaying state be any indication of its current status.

A heated argument from a pair of opportunistic grave robbers quieted as we approached. They spotted us. They nervously pulled their weapons, attempted threats.

Neither were warriors, neither wanted to fight.

My thoughts turned to my newly acquired blade, which had parted bone but had yet to taste flesh, to bathe in blood. To be baptised as I tested its edge against the living for the first time in perhaps centuries.

The pair attempted to force a decision, drawing me from my fantasies. Shadowheart turned to me, curious. Calculating.

They were the same as the elf.

The stench of fear overwhelmed my senses. They could do no lasting harm. They were not worthy of even the simplest of tests.

I did not reach for the blade, but stretched. Yawned.

My movements drew their eyes. They lingered on muscles. Glanced to the weapon on my back, longer than they were tall. More deadly.

They knew I could crush them without even trying. They saw how effortless it would be. They stood no chance.

I told them they should value the one thing they still had: their lives. While they could.

They fled.

Something within me felt regret. The same part that dreamt of blood and sacrifice.

But Shadowheart offered her first genuine smile. It shifted to a smirk once again as she saw my gaze. She complimented my finesse, that killing should not always be a first resort. She was pleased that the overwhelming aura I exuded was capable of more than mere slaughter.

She claimed us to be kindred spirits.

I did not absorb her sentiment at the time. I could focus only on this aura.

Do my thoughts and imagingings seep into the world, hint at what I might do? Or does she sense what others might not. Is she merely cautious and wary, or does she know?

I would be wary. I am wary.

I was broken from my reverie by a rock crashing to the ground. It broke through the stones at my feet, revealing a room below.

A rush of footsteps came to investigate. The pair of thieves were not alone.

We fled the scene. Not in fear - I could have easily handled a handful of brigands - but as an opportunity.

We returned to the catacombs with the lich. He had wandered off. Good riddance.

We circled to the only path we had passed over. It was a small alcove, another secret passage.

I lit torches to open the door; there were five people focused on a room opposite ours. Where the stone fell.

A mage stood nearby, keeping his distance from where he assumed the danger would appear. He noticed us and drew his companions with a scream.

Shadowheart aimed at a barrel filled with oil. It exploded as her flame breached the wooden barrier, spreading chaos and death. She grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the hidden passage, retreating.

One of the survivors screamed in rage, leading the charge while the others cautiously followed. I called upon thunder in the doorway. The raging human kept his footing while the others were blasted into the burning rubble.

Their screams were short-lived as they burned. Or perhaps they quieted; I do not know. Whatever mechanism kept the door open broke with my spell, locking the barbarian with the two of us.

We had the advantage. He did not know, lost in anger. His attack drew blood, and with it the lightning coursing in my veins. His corpse crumbled, fried from the inside.

Arrows thumped into the locked door. We left; the mechanism was broken.

After salvaging what we could from the body. Waste not.

We circled back to the crater Shadowheart had made, now that we knew where it led. We lowered ourselves into the room and saw the same situation as before, with our positions reversed.

Two grave robbers lived, focused on the alcove we had already abandoned. Shadowheart threw a bomb at them, and one of the archers survived. She rushed the priestess and hit her point-blank with her bow.

I heard Shadowheart's whimper of pain as she kneeled to the ground. An anger grew, I saw red.

For the first time in memory - which, granted, was not long - it felt... good. Righteous.

A few minutes later, a corpse lay at my feet - both the halberd and my hands drowning in dwarven blood. The priestess was alive, recovering.

No one hurts my Shadowheart.