Paultin had wondered what he would do when his worst nightmare came true.

His imagination had dreamed up every possible option, and he had internally reviewed them all every time his friends were in mortal danger. Which path would he go down? Would he cry? Would he run? Would he rage and fight whatever took them away from him? Would he just drink himself to death to stop the pain?

But now the moment he always dreaded was here at last. His friends were dead, and he was the last one standing.

And he felt nothing.

No, that wasn’t exactly true. He did feel something.

He felt the lack of feeling. A pure and cold numbness had settled on him, when he thought he would be burning in grief. The closest feeling he was experiencing now was cool relief at the frost armoring his heart in ice.

The elf druid lady that joined them was haltingly saying something to him, possibly an attempt at comfort or encouragement, but he wasn’t listening. No point in looking back. The only direction that made any logical sense was forward.

He pulled a fresh bottle of wine out of his pack and habitually took a swig. But his taste buds were as deadened as his emotions, and as his ringed hand made contact with the bottle, the sudden addition of sharp chill to the Chultan heat made the bottle shatter in his hand.

Paultin didn’t even feel the crunch of glass under his boot as he walked away.