"Good," Helm muttered. "Dying would have been inefficient."
Water dripped from petrified trees growing upside down from the ceiling. The floor was a mosaic of shattered mirrors, each shard reflecting a different version of the group — Helm as a legionnaire, Lyra as a court mage, the dwarf Gunther as a king. Past selves. Dead selves.
"Chapter 52," he finally said. "That's what they'll call this part of the tale. 'The Rearguard's Final Stand.'" "Good," Helm muttered
The Sanctum did not welcome them.
The construct lunged.
"I had the terrain. And you left me caltrops."
"Will face us ." Gunther hefted his axe. "Not just you, tactician. Us. The whole party. The one you keep trying to protect by pushing yourself into the dark." Past selves
That was the curse of his old life. Rearguard Commander of the Fifth Legion. His job had never been to win. It had been to last — to measure victory in minutes gained for others to flee. Every formation, every false retreat, every calculated sacrifice. He had been very good at it. So good that even now, stripped of rank and nation, he could not stop being what he was: the shield that no one saw until it broke.
Helm drew his short sword. It felt small. Inadequate. "That's what they'll call this part of the tale
"Rearguarding the rearguard." She smiled — sharp, warm, utterly defiant. "Someone has to watch your back while you watch everyone else's."
Lyra stepped up beside him. Not behind. Beside . She placed her staff on the ground and drew a simple iron dagger.