Beloved,

We left Friar beneath a burning dawn. The road soon tested us. A pack of warped Cadavers sprang from the tall grass, their eyes glowing like coals.

Jack drew his blade first, his silence broken only by steel striking flesh. Emily’s bowstring sang, each arrow sure. Bam Bam slipped between shadows, knives flashing before I even saw him move.

Xty shouted with joy rather than fear, sparks flaring from her hands:
“Look, look, Kyle! Mana dances if you laugh while casting!”

Her bolt seared one hound mid-leap. She clapped like a child at festival.

John’s voice steadied me. “Breathe, lad, breathe before the strike.” I did, and with trembling arm I thrust a spear into a beast’s side. It fell.

After, John sang a tune so light it made us forget the blood still cooling on our blades. “Fear grows if you feed it,” he told us. “So starve it with song.”

I believe him.

Yours,
Kyle