Torch-soot stains the hallway’s crumbling stone walls. They jump over stretches where bricks and debris have fallen from the ceiling.
The mystic runs like the wind, holding his nocked bow out in front of him, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice. After some distance, Gil sees two hoplites lying on the floor with arrows sticking out of the scant parts of their bodies that aren’t covered in armor. Jaruna must have shot them on his way to the dungeon.
Just ahead of them, a huge pile of debris litters the floor, lit by a shaft of orange light that streams in from an equally huge hole in the ceiling. The clean air from outside wafts in, along with a sharp, ozone smell—
