She lay there for another long moment, gathering her strength.
Then, slowly, painfully, she rolled onto her side.
Her massive breasts squished against the ground, the torn neckline of her robes gaping further. She didn't care. Modesty was the least of her concerns.
She pushed herself up to her hands and knees, breathing hard.
"Come on, Olivia," she whispered to herself. "You didn't survive all that just to die in the dirt outside town."
With tremendous effort, she stood. Her legs shook. Her whole body ached. She was covered in mud, her hair was a disaster, and she probably smelled like crocodile breath.
But she was alive.
And she was here.
Olivia looked toward the town—small, quiet, seemingly peaceful despite the ominous Tower looming in the distance.
"Someone here needs healing," she said firmly, trying to rebuild her conviction. "That's why I was sent. That has to be why."
