I raised my head. I looked at the Arcanist. At the Adepts. At the red door that was almost closed, Orath's silhouette was just visible on the other side.
When did death stop scaring me? Maybe it was when I died the sixth time, or perhaps it was the seventh. I was about to die for the fifteenth time, and I wondered when that day would come when I no longer counted, not because I could not, but because it would no longer matter.
I struggled to come to my feet, and it was difficult, but the Adept did not attack me; they seemed to be waiting for me to get back to my feet. This was a sign of respect, I knew it, but I did not want their respect.
There was nothing to be proud of in falling to the hands of your enemies. Death was my mistress, but these Adept did not know that; they were about to send me into her arms, but I could leave and arrive again in the morning, and this fall would be carried over in my soul… they would never know what happened here, but I would… I would.
