Following the two men, Ivaia tries to look obedient while she ponders ways of getting out. Even if she eludes this pair, there are plenty of other people around. Best to wait. For a little while, anyway.
They lead Ivaia back to the entrance hall, up the wide polished staircase and along a corridor whose walls look plain, with empty white gaps where Ivaia would expect to see portraits or tapestries. “These rooms are yours,” one of the men says after they stop in front of a door. “As Avrios mentioned, there’s a bell you can ring if there’s anything you need. We’ll be happy to provide a change of clothes if you want, though they won’t be anything fine.”
Once Ivaia steps into the room, the door is closed behind her and she hears a key being turned in the lock.
Once Ivaia has been led away, Avrios gestures towards the entrance hall. “But we’ll be going downstairs.” He walks to the doorway and looks at the staircase. “See?”
Karalisel follows Avrios to the entrance hall in time to see a section of the wooden floor behind the main staircase slide away, revealing steps of pale marble that lead down into darkness. Raising her eyebrows, she glances at Avrios.
Avrios smiles again. “I’ll go first. Some of this journey may look strange, but our path today is entirely safe.” He starts walking down. After about half a dozen steps, he pauses to take an unlit lantern from a shelf on the wall next to him. He looks back up at Karalisel and waits.
Karalisel hesitates for a few more moments, then walks down, letting Avrios lead the way. At the second last step, she stops - there’s a junction ahead, with one corridor going forwards and an archway to the left and right. She waits to see which direction Avrios will choose.
“Look more closely,” says Avrios. “The labyrinth is a symbol. There’s only one path once you understand life and the world clearly enough.”
Karalisel steps down from the staircase and looks at what she thought was the left-hand corridor. As she shifts her head from side to side, she sees that the perspective becomes wrong. She can’t tell whether the effect is created by paint or something else, but there’s no shadowed entrance, just deceptive grey and black markings on the wall. The illusion’s surprisingly convincing even now that the trickery has been pointed out. Lighting from just one lantern probably helps… this couldn’t work so well in sunshine, surely.
She follows Avrios along the single real corridor, which is sometimes straight and sometimes curved, with occasional tight turnings. Every so often, there’s another pair of painted entrances, but they become fainter and sketchier as the path continues onwards. After about a quarter of an hour, Avrios and Karalisel arrive at a small, circular, empty chamber. Directly opposite, there’s a darkened archway in the wall.
“But…” says Karalisel. “Unless I’m completely disoriented, this corridor’s been wrapping around a central point, and this is it. That archway can’t go anywhere. Is it just another painted image, leading nowhere?”
“In a sense, yes,” Avrios replies. “But not in any interesting sense. Walk across to the arch, try to go through it, discover what happens.”
“All right.”
Ivaia has spent some time sitting on the bed and staring at the closed door. She heard a key turn, so she’s assuming the door is locked, but she has - so far - refused to try turning the handle.
She’s not sure if this is pride, confusion or exhaustion.
When the guards finally pull the bag from his head, Farenthar sees that he’s standing in front of an open doorway. The darkened space beyond looks small.
Someone behind Farenthar cuts the rope binding his wrists and then shoves him forwards, into the cell. The door clangs.
Farenthar tries to regain his balance, but fails and falls. The impact of his hands striking the bare stone is jarring. He lowers his head and rests his temple on the floor, which is as rough and cold as he was expecting. But it’s also solid and motionless.
What happened? Why has the Duke done this?
He hears the scrape of a key being turned, and then a clunk - perhaps a metal bar being lowered into place across the outside of the door.
He tells me I can speak freely, and I thank him, and then he’s shouting for guards and holding a knife to my throat. And giving some very strange orders…
Farenthar lifts his head and looks around the cell. It has all the furnishings he expected: a bucket in a corner, and a bed made from a wooden plank that folds down from a wall, supported by chains.
He stands up, moving slowly to make sure he doesn’t lose his balance again - soon, there will be bruises all over his arms and legs, and he doesn’t want to add more. While they were bringing him here, the guards didn’t seem to be actively trying to hurt him, but they weren’t gentle, either. To take him from the Palace to the fortress, they threw him onto the floor of a carriage. An unusually large carriage, he guessed, but he was still curled up and squashed between the guards’ boots. And after being pulled from the carriage, he was dragged to the fortress by at least two people holding his shoulders and elbows at all times.
My hands were bound behind my back, there was that bag over my head, and they still treated me as though I was dangerous. He sits down on the bed and crosses his arms, pressing them close to his chest. He feels cold and fragile. They take their Duke’s orders seriously, I suppose. What did he tell them? Once I’m here, no one should talk to me or even look at me? What does he think I can do? And just before he gave those orders... He had a knife at my throat - why would he care whether my eyes were open or closed? Does he believe I can harm him just by looking at him?
He believes I can harm him just by looking at him.
The prison cell now seems colder. He knows, because he sensed it. There must be people trying to flatter and cajole him every day, but he flinched from my gaze because I was doing something more. And he understands, because I told him about it myself last night. He’s cleverer than I am. I assumed it was something being done to me somehow, not by me. Is it possible? Can I influence how people think about me, how they treat me, just by looking at them? Without even realising it?
He thinks of the dream, of the letter, of Ivaia’s carriage and its driver with the inhuman eyes. Someone knows I have this ability, and they want me. Or they want it. That all makes sense now, and the Duke’s orders do too. With his power over other people’s lives, he has good reason to fear losing control. And he’s worried I can make the guards let me escape. So he’s ordered them to kill me if I talk. And they’re not even allowed to look at me.
And then what? The Duke can’t put me on trial for this, surely. But it’ll be impractical to keep me prisoner for long if the guards can’t even look at me. Is he making plans to remove the threat? Should be easy enough to manage. They could deliver poisoned wine and nothing else for me to drink.
Normally I disapprove of murder, especially if I’m the intended victim. But I can’t help having some sympathy for the Duke, even if he does want to kill me.
What did it feel like to him? Perhaps, last night, he thought I was a trustworthy person. And then… was it like an unknown force, snaking into his mind, trying to twist his thoughts? It must have seemed a horrifying betrayal after he gave me money and promised favours.
I owe him an apology.
Even though it was an accident. I want to explain that I didn’t mean any harm, and apologise.
I’ll be very surprised if he allows me to speak to him again. But maybe I can write a note. And then I can also leave a letter with an apology for Karalisel and Ivaia, if they ever make it back from wherever that carriage took them. I just need to persuade the guards to let me have pen and paper…
He moans quietly and leans forward, resting his head on his hands.
They’ve been ordered to kill me if I talk to them. I won’t even be able to try conveying a request by mime…
“When you ignored the sensible advice you were given, I was expecting you to get into trouble,” says a woman’s voice from the other side of the cell door. “But not this much trouble.”
Farenthar starts and looks towards the door. The voice is musical and alluring, eerily so. But it’s also familiar.
He stands up. Curiosity has overcome any wariness - he walks, a little shakily still, to the door and looks through its barred, rectangular window.
The woman on the other side is the singer who performed at last night’s banquet. The one who tried to do something to the mind of the Duke’s younger brother. And the one who could send Farenthar into unconsciousness just by touching him twice. He recognises her face at once, despite the changes to the rest of her appearance.
Pale strands hang in front of her eyes, but at the sides and back of her head, her hair has been cut very short. And she’s now wearing the uniform of the Duke’s guards, except that it’s tailored to fit closely to her figure.
How did she get into the fortress? Because there is no way that costume works as a disguise.
She doesn’t meet many conventional standards of beauty now, but Farenthar finds that he can’t stop staring at her, and he has no idea what to say.
“What on earth did you do to end up here?” the singer asks. She’s smiling, and her tone is playful. “I hope you don’t have any illusions about the Duke’s commitment to fair trials. They happen occasionally, when it suits his plans.”
“Who are you? And why are you visiting me?”
“I’m someone who may be able to help you, and that’s why I’m visiting.” Her smile broadens. “A bargain? I should be able to get you out of here and take you to a comfortable place where you’ll be safe from whatever the Duke is intending to do to you.”
If she’s telling the truth and can get me out of here… then what? As far as the Duke will know, I’ll simply have disappeared, and he was justified in assuming I’m dangerous. I won’t be able to show my face in this city again - the guards will be given my description. And what will that do to my chances of finding Karalisel and Ivaia?
“Can you bring me paper and something to write with?” Farenthar asks. “And deliver a note so the Duke will read it? I’ll make a bargain for that. Perhaps. What are your terms? What do you want from me?”
“A note? That’s all? You must have great confidence in the persuasive power of your writing. Very well, if you’re willing to bargain for that, then-” She stops and looks to her left. “Hmm. It seems any bargaining will have to wait. I’ll try to talk to you again soon.” She glances back at Farenthar, and her smile hasn’t lessened. “If there’s still a you to talk to.” She turns to her right and moves quickly out of Farenthar’s view. Her footsteps are silent, but Farenthar can hear others - boot-heels on stone, approaching along the corridor.
Farenthar tries to move quietly too - he steps away from the door, returns to the bed and sits down. Hopefully the singer isn’t spotted. I’d rather not be caught talking to a strange non-guard.
As the footsteps get closer, Farenthar can tell that it’s just one person. A good sign… perhaps.
The footsteps halt near the door of Farenthar’s cell. “It’s important that you answer this question truthfully,” says the Duke. He has dropped his usual expressionless tone and is speaking seriously, with an odd mix of unhappiness and warning in his voice. “You didn’t understand what you were trying to do to me, did you?”
The Duke? Here? And by himself?… Well, no doubt there are guards somewhere nearby, but still…
Farenthar stands up again. “No. No, I did not, your Grace,” he says, trying to speak as clearly as he can - this seems like a very bad time for further misunderstandings. He takes a few steps towards the door. The Duke isn’t visible through the barred window. “I only just started to figure it out. In the past few minutes. And I still don’t really know anything about it. But… I was wishing for a chance to apologise, so…” He breathes in. “I’m truly sorry. If I’d realised, I would never…”
“If you didn’t intend any harm,” the Duke says, “then there’s no need to apologise. I am sorry,” he adds, with heavy emphasis. “I’m not expecting you to forgive me, though. What I’ve just put you through is unconscionable. My only excuse is that you frightened me badly, and so I wasn’t thinking well. Some part of my mind noticed your expression, how shocked and baffled you looked, but…”
Farenthar steps forwards again, until his face is nearly touching the bars of the window. He still can’t see the Duke, whose voice seems to be coming from the right and downwards. Is this powerful nobleman sitting on the floor of the corridor?
“But I took far too long to realise what that seemed to mean,” the Duke continues. “I believe you, and I’ll try to make amends. In part. Somehow. If I can.”
There’s a rustle of cloth and then a few footsteps - perhaps the sounds of the Duke standing up. A few moments later, he moves into view, facing Farenthar. The Duke grunts softly as he lifts the metal bar and pushes it sideways. Then there’s a metallic rattle, presumably keys.
“There was something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Yes, sir, there was.” Farenthar waits while the Duke turns the key in the lock and pulls the door open, so that the noise of the hinges doesn’t obscure any words. But as soon as Farenthar can step out into the corridor, he does, and he continues speaking. “Ivaia Haldizi and Karalisel Vrae have been abducted.”
“What?” The Duke spins around, leaving the door still half open.
There are regularly spaced, narrow windows in the stone wall facing the cell doors, and there’s enough light for Farenthar to see that the Duke’s appearance is no longer immaculate - his greying hair is slightly dishevelled, and there are ink-stains on his forefinger and thumb.
“I came to ask you to help me find them. We met outside your Palace to discuss a few questions, and we were travelling in the lady’s carriage.” He goes on to describe the strange eyes of whoever was driving, and the unnatural strength that slammed the door closed. Then he hesitates and takes a deep, steadying breath before admitting that he had jumped from the carriage. “I panicked, I wasn’t thinking, I… When I stood up on the street, I was assuming they’d follow… but course I hadn’t explained what I saw, and…”
“There is power in your gaze,” says the Duke. “Perhaps it can see more in the eyes of others than the rest of us can.”
Is this the Duke trying to be consoling?
Then the Duke blinks a couple of times, runs one hand through his hair and starts swearing, with more force then eloquence.
Farenthar is startled by this string of profanity from the Duke, who normally speaks so carefully. “Sir?”
“Ivaia Haldizi…” says the Duke. “I summoned her to meet me, and now she’s disappeared. Her family will think I’m secretly holding her captive. Everyone will think I’m secretly holding her captive. And it is my fault. If I’d only listened to you for just a bit longer, instead of assuming…” He shakes his head. “I’ve lost so much time. Did you happen to notice if there were any insignia still visible on the carriage? Or were they covered up?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Maybe? I was waiting for Ivaia and Karalisel to jump out too, and then I was watching how fast the carriage was moving away.”
“That’s understandable.” The Duke’s tone is becoming calmer and more precise. “Let’s go. I can organise a search more effectively from the Palace.” He starts walking along the corridor.
Before he follows, Farenthar glances for a few moments back towards the prison cell. He was there for a quarter of an hour at most, he guesses, but there was a point when he wasn’t expecting to leave it alive. He’s not sure what he should be feeling. Gratitude? The dimly lit and mostly empty space is a scene he wants to remember, however.
Beyond a turn at the end of the corridor, a seated guard is on watch. The Duke tosses the keys onto a nearby desk. “We’re finished here,” he says.
Farenthar will definitely notice the guard's quick upwards glance and puzzled frown.
Every so often, Ivaia hears noises from somewhere downstairs: footsteps, quiet but earnest voices, doors closing. Although the voices are all much too distant for her to distinguish any words, Ivaia still has a clear impression of urgency and concern. People are walking briskly, and the conversations are short.
Conveniently distracted.
Ivaia is lying on the bed in this ‘guest’ room, trying to persuade herself to be patient.
If they think I’m compliant, maybe they’ll be more inclined to answer questions about our driver. Maybe they’ll actually prove to me that he’s safe.
They’re not exactly rushing.
Aunt Ela lectured me so many times about the virtues and rewards of being able to wait quietly… but how many times was there any reward?
My uncle has spent nearly three years in a prison cell, and I’m eager to start shouting to be let out after… what? Half an hour?
But when my uncle was arrested, he didn’t have a missing driver to worry about.
And that’s the most ridiculous objection to anything I’ve ever heard myself make in my own head, she tells herself. But by now, she has already stood up and put her shoes back on.
She walks across to the window and tries the latch, which lifts easily. She pushes the glass panes outwards to create a gap more than wide enough for her to climb through, if she wanted to. She’s on the second storey, and the nearest tree, while close, is not near enough for her to reach any branches. But there are bedsheets…
Does that actually work?
And do I want to escape that way?
They didn’t say where our driver is, just that he’s being ‘entertained and distracted’. Where? In the city, or here in the house? If he’s here, I’ll have a much better chance of finding him if I don’t leave the house first - with all that activity going on downstairs, it may be hard to get back inside without being noticed.
She turns away from the window, walks across the room to the door and finally tries the handle. The door is locked, of course.
But locked bedroom doors in a house like this one are usually more of a signal to guests and servants. Not a serious impediment. The mechanism will probably be light-weight and not particularly sturdy.
She wraps both hands around the handle, braces her feet and pulls forcefully.
After about a quarter of an hour, Ivaia had torn bedsheets into strips, twisted them and knotted them to create a sort of rope, and tied one end around the door handle and the other end around the back of a chair. And then she lifted the chair and dropped it out the window, hoping the extra weight will help her pull the door open. Now she’s gripping the bedsheets with both hands, just in front of one of the knots, and preparing to brace and lean back again.
I should probably feel guilty about the property damage, but I don’t.
If anyone walks around the back of the house, the sight of the dangling furniture will make it obvious that the ‘guest’ is not being cooperative. And the prospect of being caught inspires gleeful thoughts in Ivaia - it will spoil her chance to find her driver, but it will also give her an opportunity to tell her captors exactly what she thinks of their behaviour, now she’s been given time to reflect on it.
She tugs hard on the rope. There’s the sound of cracking and splintering, and Ivaia manages to skip backwards and avoid falling over as the weight of the chair pulls the door open.
Ivaia hauls the chair back up into the room and leaves it next to the open window, still tied to the sheets. Then she walks to the doorway. The locking mechanism has been pulled out of alignment, and parts of the surrounding wood have broken to make way for it. It looks moderately expensive to repair.
She listens briefly - there are still muffled footsteps from the floor below, but none nearby, so she walks out into the corridor. There are several other doors to her left, and they look the same as the door to her room except less damaged. She goes to each door in turn, and first tries the handle. If the door isn’t locked, she pushes it open slowly. When she reaches one that is locked, she knocks quietly and whispers. “It’s me. Ivaia Haldizi.”
Some of the unlocked rooms contain travelling bags or clothes laid out on the bed. There are no people in them now, however, and there are no responses to her knocks and whispers.
The corridor turns a corner to her right. The remaining doors to the left are for cupboards containing bedlinen, brooms or firewood. But there’s an open door on the opposite side of the corridor, leading to a room that looks like a study or library. Ivaia walks inside.
Like every part of this house that she’s seen so far, this room is clean - there’s no sign of dust. Instead, the air smells of leather, cloth and paper. The curtains are partly open, and the window overlooks the looping path outside the front of the house. By the late afternoon light, Ivaia can see the ink bottles, quills and penknives laid out across the desk. Against the opposite wall, there’s a high, narrow bookcase with glass doors.
Ivaia walks across the soft carpet that covers much of the floor and tries to open the doors of the bookcase. They’re locked, and she finds she’s much more reluctant to do any damage to this room. Instead, she goes back to the desk and pulls the drawer open. It’s nearly empty, but there is one promisingly sized key, which does indeed unlock the bookcase.
The spines of the books look identical - bound in black leather and all the same width - except for narrow pieces of card that have been slipped behind thin horizontal bands, allowing the books to be labelled. These cards have no words on them, just sequences of handwritten numbers separated by dots.
The pages would have been blank when the books were purchased - the steward employed by Ivaia’s family uses very similar ones for the estate accounts. But there are at least a hundred volumes here. That would be a lot of accounting.
Since the labels mean nothing to her, Ivaia needs some other way to choose a book.
The books aren’t ordered by the numbers on the spine as far as Ivaia can tell. So how are they sorted?
She crouches down to look at the lowest shelf - it’s only a quarter full, and there is a stack of unlabelled books lying horizontally in some of the remaining space. Maybe chronologically? She reaches for the rightmost labelled volume, hoping it will be the most recent. Why am I wasting time with this? Shouldn’t I be searching the rooms at the other end of this floor? As she touches the spine, her fingertips feel warmer for a few moments, then colder. Nervousness. I should probably have been feeling like this as soon as I started ripping up bedsheets.
Just a quick glance. Seeing what these people choose to write down may give some hints about what they consider important. And how they think.
She straightens and walks across the room to stand close to the window so she can read by what remains of the daylight. Cradling the book in her left arm, she opens the cover and looks at the first page.
As she expected, the text is handwritten, but so neatly that it’s almost as easy to read as print. The title at the top of the page is: On the Haldizi and Volcharoth Families
She feels briefly dizzy. The first book I chose, and it has my family’s name on the first page… It’s not so strange. We are important, or were once. But all the same…
After the title, the writer cites various records and two published books as sources for the events summarised in the following paragraphs. Ivaia is curious - she’s heard the story many times, but only from her family’s point of view. And during the past few years, she’s started to wonder if she was being told the full truth. What will a less biased account say?
But the history described here matches what she was told almost exactly. A little over a hundred and sixty years ago, the foreign cousin-by-marriage to the ailing Haldizi Duke offered to help administer the city while the rightful ruler was incapacitated. And the devious young Lord Volcharoth made many carefully chosen alliances, plundered the city’s treasury for bribes, gradually took complete control and signed a pair of loophole-filled contracts with the Haldizi family. And refilled the treasury through trade, reformed the laws protecting the rights of the common people and used his tactical cunning to repel two invasion attempts with hardly any loss of life. And so, when he was finally dying, he was able to pass his supposedly only temporary title on to his own son rather than returning it to the Haldizi heir. Of course, the Haldizi family tried to reclaim their city, but the Volcharoths had simply won too much support from the nobility and other citizens, and the legal challenges were predictably tied up in court for generations by the succession of appeals that the Volcharoths’ wealth could buy. And the Dukes of Tuarensi had been Volcharoths ever since.
The only aspect of this version that Ivaia hasn’t already heard from her family is the commentary at the end, which claims that the blatant usurpation was almost certainly beneficial for the city, because none of the later heads of the Haldizi family seem likely to have made competent rulers.
There’s no debate over the facts, then? What my family says about the current Duke is true. He’s just the descendant of a lucky swindler. The power he wields is illegitimate, and the Palace he lives in is stolen property. She remembers facing the Duke across his desk that morning as he stated his terms for offering a pardon to her uncle. None of that should have happened. He doesn’t have the right to decide my uncle’s fate… But she’s not feeling any anger or resentment towards the Duke. She’s unsettled, because she also remembers the lopsided reassuring smile from Alledain when they were dancing last night. I don’t think I can even begin to be angry at the Duke until I know that no one from my family was responsible for hiring the assassin who tried to cut the throat of the Duke’s younger brother.
She begins flipping through the pages - only the first twenty or so have been written on. She skims through a lengthy discussion of events that occurred a few years before she was born - the current Duke’s father supposedly had an affair with Ivaia’s grandmother, and soon afterwards Ivaia’s grandfather was killed in what was sometimes described as a ‘duel’. Here, the writer cites no records but discusses the sometimes conflicting rumours and seems most interested in how uncharacteristic the actions of the previous Duke were.
The majority of the pages are taken up by decisions made by the current Duke. There are quotes from court records of three eyewitness statements about the attempt on his life - Ivaia skips over these. But she does note one isolated, underlined sentence: It is strongly recommended that no one attempt to influence Dastiarn Volcharoth directly; although he maintains the demeanour of a man who respects reason and the rule of law, and he has shown no sign of possessing unusual mental powers, we believe him to be volatile and wilful, and he may be extremely dangerous if he believes his family or his control over the city to be threatened. The word ‘wilful’ seems a bizarre choice to Ivaia. What do they expect from a Duke?
Why was this book the last one on the shelf? She turns to the final page with writing on it - here, the script is different, though still very clear. The words at the top begin mid-sentence: based on a purchase of clothing; however, Zhulina Haldizi apparently fell ill of fever shortly before the banquet and her cousin Ivaia Haldizi attended in her stead.
Ivaia feels dizzy again and closes her eyes. When was this written? Last night? Today?
After a few moments, she continues reading: If there are no other symptoms, then we should consider the possibility that the fever was psychically induced. I am unaware of the Ephemeral Flame or their servants possessing this power or using this tactic previously, but coincidence seems unlikely given how strongly subsequent events suggest that Ivaia Haldizi has some level of instinctive control over the aether and that others she met for the first time during the evening have abilities of even greater interest to us. The text ends there.
How do they-
Ivaia’s thoughts are interrupted by sounds like a small gust of wind and then something tapping on wood nearby. She looks up from the book.
A raven is perched on the back of the chair behind the desk. Its feathers look black at first, but when the bird shuffles sideways along the back of the chair into a beam of light from the window, an intense blue sheen appears across their surface. As it looks at Ivaia, the bird tilts its head and opens its beak. “That thing then,” the raven says in a pure tone, not croaky at all. Then it spreads its wings and flies directly towards Ivaia’s face.
Instinctively, Ivaia closes the book and raises it to shield her face. As she’s turning, she feels a brief tug on the side of her neck, and then hears the beating of the bird’s wings, now moving away from her.
When she lowers the book, the raven is about to fly out through the doorway. In its beak, it’s holding the necklace that the Duke gave to Ivaia the previous evening.
“Wait! You can’t-” She steps forward, puts the book down on the desk and starts running. She chases the bird out into the corridor and back around the corner - she’s just fast enough to see the bird fly into the guest bedroom Ivaia had broken out of. I left the window open. She has no chance of catching up.
Once she stops running, she can hear several set of footsteps approaching from the far end of the corridor. The tanned woman who met Ivaia and Karalisel at the front door now steps into view, followed by the two men who took Ivaia to her ‘guest’ room.
Ivaia folds her arms. What question should I demand answers to first?
As Karalisel steps through the archway, vague shapes of dim colour appear amid the blackness, and a scene brightens out of the dark.
There’s a lingering question in Karalisel’s mind: when Avrios suggested she walk through the archway, did he really speak, or had she imagined his words, unusually vividly, in her own mind? She looks back. Avrios has followed her through the archway. His expression is bland - there’s no way for her to tell whether he’s recently spoken or not.
She faces the landscape in front of her again. She seems to be standing on a rugged hillside overlooking a valley with a wide river meandering through it. It could be what her local region would have looked like if the city of Tuarensi had never been built and the surrounding farms never established. It’s all tinged with a golden light, as if the sun has nearly set. Karalisel glances up at the sky.
There is no sky. Instead, there’s a grey stone ceiling, low enough for her to touch if she were to reach up. Impossibly low - she’s just been looking at distant hills that must have been much higher.
Immediately, she’s staggering back and gasping for breath, fighting against the feeling that she’s suffocating.
“It’s all right,” says Avrios softly. “Just close your eyes, focus on your breath. You can lean on my arm if you’re dizzy. What you thought you saw isn’t real. This place is shaped by all who visit.”