Dive for cover!

Cursing, she flung herself over the corner of the desk, parchment and shattered inkwells scattering in her wake like startled birds. The polished wood slammed against her ribs as she vaulted, then she dove, body twisting midair, toward the bed.

A bolt hissed past. Another struck. It grazed her calf, slicing through skin with cruel ease now that her robes lay inert, their psionic shimmer utterly dead. The impact jolted her leg, hot pain blooming instantly as the wound opened. A thin ribbon of blood traced down her ankle, dark against the pale stone.

Worse was what followed. The poison.

It seeped into her veins like liquid frost, slow and deliberate, coiling upward with invasive precision. Her muscles tightened, then loosened in unnatural waves. A faint tremor crept into her limbs, betraying her.

The resistances drilled into her since childhood—venoms sampled, endured, mastered—fought back, but she could already feel the limits of that conditioning. This was no crude toxin. It was refined. Lethal.

Without an antidote, she had minutes. Perhaps less.

The world tilted slightly as nausea rolled through her, thick and disorienting, but she **** herself onward. Sliding across the floor, she reached beneath the bed, her arm disappearing into shadow as her fingers clawed blindly against the cool stone.

Her fingers closed around the grip of the loaded hand crossbow, and she ripped it free in a single, fluid motion. Without rising, without aiming beyond instinct, she fired.

The bolt struck true.

A wet, meaty thunk echoed through the chamber as it punched through the Duergar’s eye, burying itself deep into his skull. His head snapped back violently, body collapsing like a puppet with severed strings, blood and vitreous humor spilling in a grotesque arc. She did not watch him fall. She saw the Drow move.

In one smooth motion, she slid fully beneath the bed, the underside swallowing her into dim, close darkness. The scent of old wood, dust, and faint perfume clung to the enclosed space, thick and stifling. Her fingers fumbled at the soft silk of the mattress, numbness creeping in, clumsy and uncooperative. Finally, they settled around a bolt.

She seized one, hands trembling, and dragged the string back. It resisted, her strength faltering, but she **** it, inch by inch, until-

Tink.

The mechanism locked into place, the small, precise sound cutting cleanly through the chaos.

A deafening crack split the air, as though the room itself had fractured. The bed above her shuddered violently, its frame jolting as dust rained down in fine, **** clouds. The smell hit her next. Burning feathers. Acrid. Bitter.

Residual arcs of electricity crawled across the floor and along the bedframe, thin tendrils snapping and dancing like living things. One lashed across her back, sharp and biting, forcing her muscles into a violent spasm. Her finger clenched involuntarily.

The bolt discharged.

It struck the already-dead Duergar in the abdomen with a dull, wasted impact.

Her breath hitched, eyes wide, another bolt already clutched in her shaking hand. There was no time. No more margin for error.

She rolled out from beneath the bed, body twisting across the cold floor, grit and splinters biting into her skin. She chose a direction blindly, had to choose, hoping instinct would carry her away from the assassin’s line of fire. As she reached the crest of her roll, she fired.

The bolt screamed across the short distance and hit. For a fraction of a second, triumph flared. Then it burned away and died. Somehow, the bolt managed to strike not his chest, but his house insignia. The useless arrow bounced away end over end. Aluziira froze as her eyes locked onto the brooch.

Bregan D’aerthe.

The elite mercenary company was infamous throughout the Underdark and even on the World Above. Someone must have paid a generous ransom to hire such an elite killer. It made sense, though. What lesser blade would be trusted to cross such distances, to infiltrate a kingdom so insular, so guarded? Only those already steeped in danger. Those seasoned, adaptable, and deadly.

Her shocked reminiscence lasted only a fraction of an instant after seeing his insignia when a bolt slammed into her. It punched clean through her left bicep, the **** driving her backward with a sickening jolt. Screeching, she dropped to a knee, clenching at the wound. A second Drow stepped into focus. His hands moved in practiced, fluid patterns, fingers weaving invisible threads of power together. Sparks of arcane energy flickered between them, embers of something far more destructive gathering with each precise motion.

Through the haze of pain and poison, something else caught her eye. Aluziira was able to discern the faintest glimpse of movement behind the mage. The well-dressed assassin's lips tightened, a faint frown creasing his otherwise composed features as her expression shifted, not to fear, but to something far more dangerous.

The mage hesitated only for a heartbeat. Then he turned, the half-formed fireball in his hands casting flickering orange light across the chamber and froze.

Filling the doorway, blocking incoming light, a monstrous form loomed there. Its bulk nearly brushing the ceiling. Multiple arms unfurled from its body, each limb coiled with unnatural strength, casting writhing shadows that crawled across the walls like living things.