“This is not how I envisioned escorting a cleric going.” The moss and vines covering the weathered stone of the temple swallowed Lilya’s voice. One of her hands dropped to rest on the hilt of her sword, seeking reassurance from the presence of the familiar weapon. Her other hand held a torch aloft; she’d thought it redundant given all the holes in the temple roof, but she’d brought it anyway. Light streamed in through the cracks and gaps, but inside was dim enough to prove her cautiousness right—the torch was necessary. The smell of pitch and tar filled her nose, replacing the heady smell of flowers that had suffused the temple before she lit the torch. Looking around, she tried to find her charge.