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The wizard was alone now. Their party had been decimated by the hellish fiend they'd come for. The friends that came on this journey now lay dying before them. The cleric, the holy light of the group, had been the first to go, and with it their hope of success.

From within the clawed hand of the fiend, the tiefling wizard scratched desperately for freedom. It couldn’t end like this, not after everything that they'd been through to get there. They couldn't breathe. Speak. Cast.

They were helpless. And alone.

”Hard to wish for anything when you have no voice, little horn…” taunted the fiend, mere inches from the wizard's face. As it spoke, spittle flew from its cracked and bloodied lips.

As the tiefling felt the darkness creep into their mind, the glow of their ring caught their attention. With sight fading, they could just make out the outstretched, shaking hand of the cleric. From the cleric's hand, a similar ring was worn, and glowing in kind.

Feeble words rang out from the cleric's dying lips as consciousness slipped away from the wizard.

“I wish…”