It was a masterful move from Muu, a crystallization of the evasive, counterattacking instinct that had been driven into her in the past week. Like a true dancer, she pivoted out of the way and cracked the pommel of her sword into the goblin’s skull. He cried out in pain, then howled in further agony as his body fell into the still hot flames. But there was no instant conflagration, the monster’s nudity working for it as he tumbled into the fire pit and then rolled out just as quickly, various burns marking his dirty, green hide. He hissed, spat further, and threw the first thing his hand grabbed.

As luck would have it, that object turned out to be Matteo’s knife.

The bloodied blade hurtled through the air towards Muu’s chest, and at the same time, the goblin burst off once more, scrambling on all fours past the Blade Dancer. She may be the most competent of them all, but her skill only extended to as far as she could reach. And the other woman, the ranger…she was certainly reaching her last legs now.

Indeed, for Ash, the question had turned from ‘what she should do’ to ‘what could she sacrifice’. As her defenses became more sluggish, as each blow got closer and closer to hitting something dangerous, the thought that dominated her mind was where she should get hit. A stab in the arm was going to paralyze her ability to counterattack. A stab in the belly was a slow, painful death. A stab in the ribs was going to puncture a lung. A stab in the thigh would likely cut open an artery and drain her dry. A stab in the calves was too low. The head was out of question. So her options, options, options, were w-

Ash heard those splashing steps too late. Had tunneled too far into countering the frenzied strikes to realize that the other goblin broke behind her. Leaping up, the club-wielding goblin grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her into the ground as a million pinpricks of pain burst through her skull. The knife-wielder, finally sensing an opportunity, straddled onto her stomach and clenched both hands around the hilt of the rusted knife.

There was a breath. An instance of anticipation.

And then, it drove the blade down towards her throat.