The last thing she remembered before blacking out was that white-haired bastard appearing behind her like a ghost. His smile had been lazy, almost mocking.
He didn't say anything before reaching for her.
And she hadn't had time to scream.
Not that she would've.
She remembered that part. His voice cracking like he'd been hit. His shadow moving. Then everything went dark.
She stood, awkwardly. Her legs worked, but just barely. Still shaky. Still cold.
No visible runes. No obvious traps. But her mana?
Still there, but dulled. Like a fire smothered under wet ash.
She touched the bindings again.
They didn't burn. Didn't react. Just stayed.
Not fast. Just enough to keep her thoughts moving. To make the space feel less like a cage and more like a room she chose to be in.
Then the door slid open with no sound.
And someone stepped through.
It wasn't the white-haired man.
This one was taller. Thinner. Hooded. No weapons. Barefoot.
Luneth didn't back up. She didn't flinch.
"You're wasting your time," she said flatly. "If this is a hostage play, I don't have leverage. And if you're looking to convert me or whatever cultist thing this is, don't bother. I've seen better sales pitches."
The figure tilted its head once. Then took a single step forward.
"Who are you?" she asked.
But the pressure changed again. Not like the creature. Not like that wave of crushing dread from the ruins. This was… lighter. More precise.
Like a single needle threading straight into her thoughts.
'That's not magic. Not normal magic.'
The figure raised a hand, palm forward.
The bindings on her wrists pulsed once.
No pain. No crackling backlash.
Luneth blinked at her hands. She turned them over once.
Still tingling. Still wrong.
The figure didn't move.
She looked up again. "What is this?"
But a second figure entered behind him now.
This one was familiar.
Still white-haired. Still smiling.
This time, he clapped slowly.
"Well, I'll give you credit," he said. "You didn't cry. Most people do when they wake up here."
Luneth didn't answer.
Maeven stepped into the room like it was a stage. Hands in his coat pockets. Eyes bright and lazy.
"I'm Maeven, by the way. And this—" he gestured lazily to the hooded one behind him, "—this is nobody. You don't need to worry about him."
The other figure bowed slightly.
Then stepped back into the shadows again.
Luneth's pulse ticked faster.
"Where am I?" she asked.
Maeven smiled wider. "Where you need to be."
"I didn't need to be kidnapped."
"Sure you did. We're not here to kill you, Luneth. Honestly, if anything, we're here to offer you a front-row seat."
Luneth exhaled slowly through her nose. "That's not ominous at all."
She frowned. "You're insane."
He shrugged. "You say insane. I say informed."
"Whatever this is," she said, stepping forward, "whatever you think I'm going to say or do, save it. I'm not interested. I'm not a pawn. And I'm not helping."
Maeven's expression didn't falter. "Oh, I believe you."
"Then why bring me here?"
"Because he told me to."
The room dropped a few degrees.
"Who?" she asked quietly.
Maeven just tilted his head.
"The thing you all woke up under your little palace. Dythrael. The one that's been dreaming in chains for thousands of years? Yeah. He's talking again. And guess who he wanted to meet first?"
"I'll be honest, I didn't expect him to name you. I thought it'd be Lindarion. Or maybe one of the elders. But no. He said your name. First."
Luneth stared at him.
"That's what we're going to find out," Maeven said cheerfully.
Then he stepped back.
And the door closed behind him.
Luneth stood alone again.
But the cold was gone.
Something else was filling the room now.
Something watching her.
And very, very awake.
'Whatever's coming… it's already here.'
The door clicked shut behind him.
Maeven didn't turn around right away. He stood there in the darkened hall, one hand resting on the stone wall like he could feel the pulse beneath it. Faint. Slow. But steady, like something breathing deep in its sleep.
It wasn't fear he wanted from Luneth. It was disruption. Cracks. Tension. Anything that showed she wasn't untouchable.
Because people like that broke interestingly.
He turned back toward the door, pulling the sleeve of his coat down a little tighter, brushing off the imaginary dust like it mattered.
The corridor around him was narrow, uneven, natural cave that had been carved out further by old hands and older magic. The walls didn't echo. Just absorbed.
Like they were listening.
He smiled to himself.
The bindings had worn off quicker than he expected. Either Dythrael was done watching, or the thing had plans of its own for her.
"Lucky girl," he muttered, voice soft. "First audience with a god and no one even wrote her a speech."
He tapped two fingers against the side of his head, then made his way back toward the upper hall.
He didn't get more than twenty paces before the stone under his boots trembled.
Like someone had tugged on a string buried too deep to see.
The tremor wasn't physical.
He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and let the edges of the void ripple against the outer layer of his senses.
Not enough to burn. Just enough to skim.
Not wild like most teleportation from younger mages. It was clean. Controlled. Like someone had stopped just shy of punching through the veil and instead… sliced it.
"Lindarion," he breathed.