She bent forward, bracing her hands on her knees, breath coming in short pulls. Her glasses sat crooked. She pushed them back into place with shaking fingers, then shot him a glare that lacked any real bite.
"My body can't take these rapid shifts in altitude! Be more careful!"
"I think your body is more prepared to take rapid shifts in altitude than a dwarven cannonball to the chest."
"… Duly noted."
Quinlan stepped forward and caught Mira again, one arm slipping under her, letting the woman sit upright in his hold. Before she could protest, he shifted his grip and reached down with his free hand.
The cellar hatch was old wood reinforced with iron bands. A thick lock sat at its center.
Quinlan pulled.
There was no strain. No visible effort. The lock tore free with a muted crack, and the boards split along their grain, folding inward as if they had decided resistance was pointless. The hatch dropped open.
Mira stared.
