Chapter 158: Blood-Trade
Alda glared at the darkness.
From twelve to eleven to ten to nine to seven to six to three. The party she'd already had, now five floors deeper, caught in the middle of a storm with thunder rumbling all around; and now without the numbers she'd allowed herself to grow comfortable with. Fucking figured. That was why she never lowered her guard. If you did that, you got adventurers who took nibbles of their own bloody party and cannibalistic children disappearing like they'd never been.
But survivors didn't bitch at the hand they were slapped with. They just slapped back.
Her heart was still slamming against her ribcage, boots scuffed to the stone—the clouds had swept back to cover Azkhal's fall, the thunder all around covering up the crash of their hit, but she had Lanc and Ossega. And a vague, nonsensical understanding of the dynamics firmly stomped underfoot, thanks to Shoth and Gnat.
You got what you wanted by biting. Shoth had taken that literally; she'd settle for figurative. But she would not be leaving this dungeon without the core.
She adjusted her vials again—setting those specifically made to counteract Azkhal, Pau, and Hulimat to less-accessible locations. She wasn't an idiot, no matter how much she enjoyed playing one with biting words and agreeable smiles. Long before she'd slipped a brew into Shoth's drink and tricked Azkhal into believing they had the same goal, she'd prepared if they turned against her.
But she'd thought Shoth had just been a tooth-based caster. And she'd thought Gnat would honour their deal.
Calarata wasn't Athábakhanú. Damningly, she forgot that, sometimes.
Still a vial to counter Lanc, a flare of brilliant light that stuck like oil to anything it touched; and one for Ossega, a heavy, globulous liquid that would seep through his hardened skin and get him drunk enough he couldn't stand, much less fight her. Alda knew how to brew things people wouldn't think of.