The clang of steel echoed through the chamber as Bess swung around, ducking to Crispin’s blind side and slamming away a hellhound with her sword. Her sword was her prize; heavy, gleaming steel, the hilt counterbalanced to feel almost light when held in her mouth. 

She couldn’t help her grin as she spun on her heel, her head arching to bring the sword down on another hound. With a sickening crunch, it fell dead at her hooves. Crispin was doing just as well, his broadsword taking the head off one hound before batting another clear into the roiling magma beneath them. 

Fighting was a dance, between mentor and apprentice, as the two coursers twisted and leapt around the narrow bridge without once striking one another with their blades. A hound nipped at Crispin’s ankle, and Bess sent if off the edge with a heavy kick. 

Ribs heaving, Bess twisted to look for her next opponent, but the cavern was suddenly quiet. The braying of the hounds had fallen silent, and the fight was over. 

Bess’ heart pounded, exhilaration coursing through every vein. This was why she was a dungeoneer; not the violence for the sake of violence, but the adventure, the teamwork, and the purpose that it gave to something deep within her soul. 

She was home.