“I know.”

The Dwarf Shaman, gruff and bearded, added: “Aye. But even a weapon can break.”

He did not know what to do with her tears. So he stood there, helmet tilted, and said the only comfort he knew:

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.

The party had been confident. A young swordsman eager for glory. A martial artist who cracked her knuckles. A scout with a quick smile and quicker hands. They had laughed at the simple job: clear a few caves, collect the bounty, earn a name for themselves.

She wanted to ask if that was a joke. She decided it was not.