Page 69 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

Angela followed Tamarr down a different corridor today, where the ceilings held dark beams that disappeared into shadow. Strange symbols were carved into the stone walls, which seemed older than anything she had ever seen.

Her fingers brushed one of the strange symbols that wasn’t a rune. “Tamarr, what are these? Are they sigils?”

“Yes, Miss.” Tamarr smiled politely. “I’m not schooled in their proper names, but they’re wards for protection. They shield us from any outer magic. My husband is one of the builders of the Keep. He says the sigils also help maintain an even temperature, regardless of the weather.”

“Like built-in air conditioning? You don’t control the weather here?” They were magical beings, after all.

“Some can, but the Accords disallow it. Nature does her duty like the Vanguard does theirs, for the good of the realms. This way, Miss.”

Heading deeper into the corridors, the air held a surprisingly clean mineral aroma, that tasted a thousand times fresher than anything she’d expected.

No pollution, Zarek had told her bluntly. No cars touched the roads of Paradox.

As for electricity… Angela had searched for power points in her new room. There were none. Even though she dreaded the power bill when it came, it was part of civilization’s infrastructure. But here, light either came from candlelight or from narrow channels cut into the stone, where veins of contained magic glowed softly along the corridor walls and responded to movement rather than switches.

Tamarr led them to a four-way intersection of corridors. “That is the way to The Magick Hall. I’ve been instructed to take you there shortly.”

“Right.” The corridor curved eastward in a cloister of carved columns where suspended lanterns hummed faintly as they passed.

Ahead, she recognized the way to the Great Hall, where she’d been brought to meet the Commander only yesterday. Now, it swallowed the noise of over a hundred warriors and students dining together, echoing with warbled conversations and the occasional riotous laughter.

Sound behaved differently in the Keep. It traveled upward, then returned softer, like the castle decided which words were worthy of being repeated. On her first walk with Zarek to meet the Commander, he’d mumbled that the walls had ears.

Looking at them now—did they?

But the farther they walked, the more the Keep’s corridors changed. Some narrowed unexpectedly into intimate monastery passages, where the air brushed against her shoulders. Others opened into vast chambers capable of housing entire battalions. As they moved up the winding stone staircase, the Training Hall lay somewhere below, with its unmistakable clash of steel against steel, boots striking stone floors, and the bark of commands that controlled the violence of fighting in a battle she had no idea existed.

Through narrow-slit windows, she kept catching glimpses of Paradox’s green valleys, too saturated in color to be real, where rich forest canopies were towered over by a sky layered in hues of an unbroken glorious blue. Not once had she felt the breeze brush her skin or heard the rustle of the leaves through the trees, let alone breathe in the scent of grass underfoot. That view of the outside had become a constant reminder of how she was trapped, in a world she could not physically touch.

The treaty mattered even more to her now, as it was such a thin line of difference between being a prisoner or that of a guest.

Tamarr remained at her side, not as a guard, but as a helpful guide. She would translate their customs and answer questions Zarek couldn’t be bothered explaining, suspecting they were so beneath his rank of captain that he just didn’t know or care. But she also knew Tamarr wouldn’t hesitate to sound the alarm if Angela tried to escape.

But she had agreed to them testing her for magick.

In return, Zarek promised he’d watch over her aunt’s safety in the mortal realm.

She’d seen no proof he was holding up his side of the bargain, or that she was in any real danger at all. Just the violation of her freedom. Maybe the War Room would change that.

Two guards stood before a set of double doors, looking lethal enough to not let anyone through unless blood was spilled first.

“Miss Duboise has been summoned by the Great Captain Zarek,” announced Tamarr.

The guards nodded and opened the doors to the War Room, where the ceilings arched high and light spilled down like a spotlight. A group of men had gathered around an enormous wooden table, wearing battle leathers and silver that clearly marked rank, with complex cuffs of silver thread woven for hierarchy.

The conversation thinned when she entered as the air thickened.

Then Zarek rose.

He didn’t rush. Or smile. He simply stood, and somehow the entire chamber adjusted around that single movement. Even the older officers shifted half a step back from him.

Authority wasn’t a uniform Zarek wore; it emanated like it was a part of his skin, enough to make her breath catch at the mere sight of him.

She had seen him fight with fury and flame that answered him like an obedient weapon. But this—this stillness—was far more dangerous. In black leathers etched with staves that hugged the muscles and energy of his power, he looked less like a man and every bit the warrior forged for command.

As he rose, a faint shimmer of golden fire moved along the carved sigils of his armor, before settling again like a wave. She’d noticed that yesterday. Whenever he got tense, those staves responded from reddish-orange to gold, as if to contain whatever burned beneath his skin.

With her fingertips she traced over the threads along her wrists, studying the subtle geometry stitched into the fabric. The weave was delicate, almost decorative at first glance, but the structure beneath it was deliberate.