The moon above the grassland was the color of bone, charred by steady fires.
She had been there before. They all had. The Guards. The Prisoners. The Maw. And her. Always her. The Warden. And the dead. Always the dead.
Strange stars glittered in the sky. More stars than she could recall. More stars than she could count. Twilight beckoned, a dying pale blue light reaching out to touch her skin. Sariel shivered, feeling a cold wind. Revealed by starlight, untold grave markers emerged from the darkness. The names were faded, the symbols obscured. A ruined tower loomed in the distance, accompanied by great stones scattered across the ground. She did not feel unwelcome. And so Sariel lingered.
Whispers rose slowly.
Whispers grew into a sea of voices. She heard tongues long faded from the world. Words heavy with unspoken meaning. In the space between, she could hear magic woven. Subtle patterns of arcane threads, deft use of the high art, magic molded into gentle designs intended to persuade her. She listened. Pleased at the offered courtesies. Impressed by the skillful manner that they had summoned her. The dead spoke wisely. There was wisdom in what they suggested. There was truth in their ragged warnings. There was kindness, real kindness, in their offer. It would be easy to remain. It would be easier to stay. She could feel the thread that chained her soul to her body. It was a thin and fragile thing. She could cut it easily. She could escape. She had only to accept.
A mirror flickered into existence. Shattered even as it appeared. Midnight bending impossibly as light recoiled, fleeing the fragmented metal that drifted through the air towards her. Another voice spoke. Quieter than the dead. Quieter still, and yet overpowering. Unbearable, with each soundless syllable and unuttered word. The dead grew silent, with dread she thought, but did not know. Sariel felt a burning cold consume her, fog settling slowly across her eyes, scattering the fell apparitions that encircled her.
You have woken. That voice –
Sariel awoke to a graying darkness. The dim light that her elven eyes allowed her. How much time had passed since her last interrogation she could not say. Not reliably. Not by any valid measure. And not with any certainty. She could not divine the plane that she was on. She knew only that she was still in the Maw. Of this she was certain. There was no time to seek answers. Her questions were too many. Her need for answers did not matter. She could wait. The dead could wait. The Warden would not. She had grasped her situation. She had understood. She had been summoned by another. She had been called. Not just by the dead. Not thence.
The Warden was there. The stars were gone. The moon had fallen. Power swirled over the shadows. Sariel watched the Warden, enraptured by the wrongness that she felt, the dagger that slipped painlessly into her mind. It was an ancient feeling. A feeling that she could not recognize at first. Fear. An old reminder that she had once committed to memory. An old friend. And an older teacher. Amusement pulled at the corner of her lips. She had thought herself removed from such base emotions. Pathetic remnants of her discarded heart. Tasting the unwelcome sensation, Sariel shuddered with excitement. She felt alive. She felt renewed by the horror that overwhelmed her. Here was something to understand. Something to study. Something to learn. And something to channel. Power, true power.
She held no attachment to the righteousness of reality. Let the Warden twist the very truth of the world. That was magic. Real magic. High magic of the highest sort. The fear was a gift. The terror was a lesson. She would treasure it, no matter the intention. Sariel knew many things. She knew of magic. She knew of the undead. She knew of the planes of existence. She knew of what lay beyond. She knew of creatures that existed far removed from mortal eyes. And yet, she knew nothing of the Warden. She knew nothing of the nature of the creature that had imprisoned her. She knew nothing of the magic that had ensnared her. And she could not name the Warden.
Discerning that the restraints holding her had loosened, Sariel shifted steadily, permitting her muscles to awaken. The magic that had bound her vanished in angles she could not follow, splintering beyond the ether. The fragments of magic disappeared with bursts of power that Sariel found dreadfully delightful to sample. Her fascination did not leave her as her senses returned to her with each slow beat of her heart. There was a familiar weight in her arms and Sariel looked down to see an arcane grimoire in her hands. It was hers, she knew. Her fingers moved desperately over the inlaid silver, tracing the runes she had engraved in her own delicate hand. Her ornate silver dagger rested in a sheath on her hip, as if she had never been forced to relinquish it. The souls held within brushed against her, warmly greeting her once more. And she was dressed in her robes, her finest robes, not the tattered clothes that they had mockingly left her.
Curiosity stirred deep within her. Sariel suspected no kindness. She expected no mercy. She did not desire forgiveness. The Warden would not release her. The Warden would not arm her. The Warden would not awaken her. Not without a need. And not without a purpose. Sariel would not beg. She would not yell. She would not scream. She would not threaten. She would not fight against the Warden. Change loomed on the horizon and she did not need the gift of prophecy to see that she was outmatched. The Warden was strong. The Warden was stronger than all of the prisoners gathered in the Maw. It did not hurt her to admit it.
Patience, the Warden says, her voice like breaking glass. All in due time. They are waking.
Faint movements and angry words from nearby drew Sariel’s attention. She might have laughed once. Chortled to hear such misplaced arrogance. Instead she waited. She knew her place. She knew her role. She had no need to prove herself. She had no wish to lash out. The Warden was in charge. The Warden was all that mattered. Watching. Waiting. Perched atop the spider web she had woven through the Maw. Perhaps beyond the Maw as well. Outside of her cell, Sariel could think. She could study the situations arrayed in front of her. She could find answers. So long as she was free. So long as she was awake. So long as she had time. The Warden was right. Sariel needed to be patient. She needed to listen. And she needed to move slowly.
Lifting the hem of her robes, as if wearing a formal gown, Sariel offered a respectful curtsy to the Warden. There was no fear in her movements and no haste. She would listen. There was no need to speak. She would hear what the Warden had to say…or not to say. She wanted to, Sariel knew, recognizing without any anger that she had already chosen.
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