Agatha cradled the tiny flame in her hands and took another step, venturing deeper into the second waterway.
In fact, she had lost track of time, and even her perception of everything around her had become blurred. She could barely remember how long she had trudged through this damp and chilly place, how many creatures she had dealt with, or how many new wounds she had accumulated in the process—At one point in time, she had even forgotten her own name, forgotten why she was in this sewer.
But when the green flame danced in the palm of her hand, her sanity would always return, and she clung to that one ultimate mission—
Carry the flame, deliver it to the dens of the heretics.
The chilly wind blew from the dark corridor ahead, seeming to carry whispers and roars, layer upon layer. Agatha's body swayed slightly as she sensed the presence of malice in the wind, and she carefully hid the flame in the lining of her tattered black clothing.
