Malkoran is no career fighter.  But Lianda's been awake for many long hours, and he knows how tired she is, and he wields frost deftly to numb her fingers and sap her strength yet more.

There's a point - well past exhaustion, with adrenaline thundering in your veins - where you discover a new type of keen awakeness.

Lianda snarls, lets herself get the furious sort of alert, and keeps fighting, pushing herself until her heart's nearly the loudest thing in her ears, until she's grateful for the frost because it's keeping her from overheating as she fights faster than the sweat can sap her muscles' extreme warmth -

Malkoran doesn’t know about that place.  He’s never been there.

He never will.

She does not let him survive long, after the first time he stumbles.

He goes down.

Unfortunately his death does not trigger the disintegration of all his undead servants, and a few moments later, a wooden door bursts and splinters open and another deer-creature gambols through it.

p̛įc͠k ̵up͞ ͠th̛e sẃoŕḑ

She dives for the blade.

When Malkoran dropped it, it clattered to the ground as a gold-colored shape of metal; but in her hands it blazes to life even hotter and brighter than it had been before.  Strength and wakefulness flows into her, like its fire has been lit inside her too.

i̶ ͡c̶an s͞usta͡in y̨o͟ų for ́a͜ ̨t̕ime̴
̛
͟hi̶s̵ ab̴o͜m̛i͝n̸ąt́i͞ons̛ ͘w͠i͝ll͞ ͜f̵a͘l͞l t̴o̕ yǫu èàsily

"Good."

And she fights.

The call for backup is propagating throughout the complex; many of Malkoran’s servants do not yet realize he is dead.

Meridia enables her to watch the entire temple; Malkoran's creations are converging on the laboratory, and wraiths are hurtling through the walls of the labyrinth.

Then they're rushing in blindly.

She summons her atronach again, feeling flushed with power, right before one wave is set to reach her, and readies herself.

Someone else might try setting a trap.

Lianda prefers setting herself firmly in the middle of the room and letting her opponent get within her sword's reach.

If she was beyond exhaustion before, now she's inexhaustible.  Her sword and her body coruscate with aurora and sunlight, like she's wreathed in the magic of turning undead, like she is a turning-spell.  They break against her like waves against a cliff.

This is, she'll admit, more than a bit exhilarating.

Still, she stays focused on the fight, doesn't let herself get sloppy even with how easy it is. With this power, she can push herself, fight at her peak and not back down, teeth bared and eyes as bright as the aurora billowing around her.

h̛i̶s for͜c͜es ͏ar̀e ͡w̡an͢i̛ǹg
҉
soo̶ǹ ͘th͠e ͏t͢e̶m̵pl̡ȩ ̵wi͟ll̛ ̡be ́cleans͝e̵d̛

"Good."

And she keeps fighting.

Bones splinter and shatter, hoarfrost melts away, the weakest of wraiths wisp away into smoke just from approaching too close.

i w͜ill n͢ot be͞ ̷ablé t̨o̢ susţain ̀thìs ̵level ͜of̶ ou̷t̴p̶ut f͞o̢r̀ mu̴c͝h͠ l͏o̡n͢ger͠

̴h͞i̶s͘ ͢lęg͜i͡o͟n͏ś ̛w̛i҉l҉l b̴e ͞fińi̛sheḑ ͢s̨o͏ǫn҉
̨
b͡ut͢ ͟ţhe ̨s͜ho̧ck of͢ ͜th̀e͝ p̡o̢węr͠ receding͏ ̕f̡ro̶m y͜ou̷ ̶may͠ b̧e͠ ͢ưn̷p͡l͟eas͟a҉ńt̛

"As long as the fight's over by then, I'll be good," she says, and steps up her game, fighting a bit more recklessly now.

They fall, and they fall, and they fall to her, and soon they have all fallen.

Meridia's power recedes from her, vanishing in a rush as though the fight exhausted her, or exhausted whatever mystical reserves she was drawing from.

She stumbles, falling to her knees, breathing heavily.

And passes out.

There's no one else in the temple to move her somewhere more comfortable, so she'll come to on the floor where she fell.  But Meridia's light is shining on her, soft and warm and as comforting as that light can ever be.

She levers herself up, groaning quietly. "We clear?"

y̳̮͎͖͙e̦͕s͇͓̯͡

And back down.

"Good."

"I should probably find a bed to collapse on..."