The greasy black ichor dripped slowly from the point of my sword, leaving something like a trail of breadcrumbs along the cold flagstones. I clutched my side as I limped slowly forward, but it was useless. I slid to the ground, with my back to the wall.

The deed was done, but the glory was lacking. My tunic clung to my chest with the stickiness of my own blood as I heaved gasping breaths. Gods damn it, I was thirsty! Why would I be so thirsty at a time like this?

I tried to let go of my sword, but was met with only a searing pain. I shook my arm and it clattered free, out-of-place icicles shattering and taking a few layers of skin with them.

It was cold. Unearthly cold. Deathly cold. The reaper had come and I had invited him, offered him sacrifice and poured libation from my veins.

Why could I see down here? My torch had been doused the moment fighting had begun. Everything was lit from beneath. The stones of the floor and walls sparkled with a pale light.

It was over. The monster was dead, and so was I.