Pushing the door open, she was met by a wall of humid, fragrant heat. The chamber was circular, lit by the soft, pulsating glow of magma veins visible through cleverly carved apertures in the walls. A natural hot spring, its waters the color of liquid turquoise due to dissolved minerals, filled the center of the room, steam curling lazily from its surface. The floor was smooth, warm rock.
Waiting for her was a figure named Rhazen. He was not a dragon, but one of the Stone-Scaled Drakkin, a servant race born of ancient pacts. He was elderly, his own scales the color of weathered granite, and his movements were slow, deliberate, and possessed of a timeless grace. His eyes, the color of dark amber, held no judgment, no curiosity, no desire for anything other than the task at hand. He was a master of his craft, an artisan of alleviation.
