“Why here?” she asked, standing in the doorway, unwilling to step inside.
“You saved me,” he said. Not grateful. Not surprised. Just… stating a fact, as if he had forgotten that such a thing was possible.
Goblins poured from side tunnels like roaches fleeing light—but these roaches had rusted blades and starving eyes. The swordsman swung his family heirloom into a low ceiling, shattering steel on stone. The martial artist’s fists met crude spears. The scout’s quick hands went slack. Goblin Slayer 01-12
That was his mercy. Measured in bruises and survival. The weeks turned to months. Priestess learned to check ceilings for drop holes. She learned to listen for the wet breathing of a sleeping goblin. She learned that Protection was best cast at the mouth of a tunnel, to split the horde. She learned to carry a second dagger—not for glory, but for the moment her first one got stuck in a rib.
He looked at her through the shimmering light. Nodded once. Then he pulled a small vial from his belt—the one he had shown her once, saying “never use this indoors” —and threw it at the champion’s feet. “Why here
“Yes,” Priestess said, and she meant it now, not like a borrowed cloak but like armor she had earned. “I do.”
She wanted to say something brave. Instead, she started crying. Not from fear. From a sudden, terrible understanding: he had never expected anyone to protect him. He had fought alone for so long that the idea of a hand reaching for him, not past him, was foreign as a song in a dead language. Not surprised
She laughed. It came out watery and strange. “Yes,” she said. “They are.” That night, around a campfire, he took off his helmet.
She fell backward into the dirt, clutching her holy symbol, waiting for the first blade.