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Together, the Saintess of the Sun God, the Tower Master, and the barbarian of the White Snowfield descended into Hell.
The realization struck at once: the air itself was poison. Acrid fumes gathered in the lungs like rot, and the simple act of breathing promised to spoil the viscera from the inside out. Helia lifted two fingers and traced a small arc in the air. Radiance bloomed and flowed over them, a clean tide that burned the venom out of the wind around their bodies.
Even so, Ketal drew a breath and frowned. “My lungs are not filling.”
He drank deeper, but nothing changed. There was air in his mouth and throat, yet his chest found no satisfaction. The Tower Master watched with a scholar’s pleasure that never quite overrode caution.
“The composition of the air here is vastly different from that of the Mortal Realm. Its very elements have changed,” he said, and the judgement clicked into place behind his eyes. “Composition Change.”
Symbols rippled across his hands and sank into the atmosphere. The ambient gases shivered, shed a few invisible skins, and settled into a ratio a human chest could use. Ketal breathed again and felt his lungs catch the air and keep it.
“That is a useful trick,” Ketal said. “Thank you. I was beginning to feel caged.”
“You did not look caged,” the Tower Master...
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