The light hurt her eyes through closed eyelids. It lifted her quickly out of sleep, and she half-expected to see the sun when her eyes opened. She was sluggish, and even the act of opening her eyes was like lifting a great weight.

But eventually, she was able to open them. She was in a small room with blinding white light above her. What had happened? She remembered the masked demon taking her, throwing her over its shoulder and taking her away from the World Tree as she struggled against him in futility. She had still been bound when she had been thrown off his shoulder and forced to lay on her stomach on the ground while Outworlders flurried around her. She saw other Embrayyans around her.

The last thing she remembered clearly was a prick in her neck, and then the world faded away.

And now she was alone in a strange room with a bed, a strange shiny seat in the corner next to a basin attached to the wall, and a large metal door. There was a desk and chair on the other side of the cell. From the ceilings came more of the unnatural light she’d seen in the Outworlder’s brewery.

Her clothes were… gone. Replaced with a well-made fabric bright orange in color. Her strength was still gone from her body and she weakly checked over herself for injuries. Her chin stung from where she had hit it after she had fallen, but besides a few aches, she seemed to be okay.

Quite obviously a prisoner, but at least she was alive.

She swung her legs to put her bare feet onto the cold floor. They were like two lumbering tree trunks. Had she been poisoned? She touched her chin gingerly, then pulled her hand away in surprise. Fabric? Had the Outworlders dressed her wound?

As she eventually went to stand, she heard a slight noise from the ceiling which drew her attention to a small inverted dome of what appeared to be black glass.

Where was this? A dungeon? She expected Outworlder dungeons to be darker… less clean. Perhaps with bones strewn about and rats feasting on rotten flesh.

But this place was clean. It smelled of… nothing. Not the sweat of the unwashed, nothing. It was as if it had been made anew just for her.

How long did she truly sleep for? Was it morning? Afternoon? The next night? Her stomach felt hollow, empty. How long had it been since she ate? She stood up and walked over to the basin. On the wall was a mirror-- no. Not a mirror. It was a sheet of metal polished so well she could clearly see her reflection in it. She lifted her chin, looking at the white bandages. She pulled a corner away and felt something peel from her face. It didn’t hurt. Rather, it was another piece of fabric, with some sort of glue that adhered it to her face.

She pulled back the bandage and looked at the wound. It was still surprisingly fresh, and she felt the pain flare up with every beat of her heart, but it had been cleaned.

She looked down to the basin. A length of metal hung over the center of the basin, and she probed it with her fingers. At the bottom of the basin was a hole-- a drain. Her fingers found a hole on the underside of the length of metal. To either side of it were two four-pronged pieces of metal. She reached out to one and pulled on it experimentally. It didn’t move from its spot, but it twisted ever-so-slightly. She tried again, and nearly jumped up in shock as water began to flow freely through the faucet.

Without thinking of it, she cupped her hands in it and drank her fill. She had been more thirsty than she’d thought, and relief came to her as the dryness in her mouth subsided.

She inspected the second dial. What use would they have for two? She shut off the water and turned the other dial.

More water?

Wait. No, the water wasn’t cold like before. She ran her hands beneath the stream and felt it slowly shift from lukewarm to warm to hot-- so hot she had to pull her hand away before it scalded her.

Running cold and hot water. Light as bright as day despite the complete absence of windows or firelight. A mirror. She looked down to the metal seat and noticed that it, too, was a basin. But it was also a seat.

She understood immediately. It was a lavatory. There was a latch of some sort on the back of the basin. She pulled it, then watched in wonder as the water inside swirled around and disappeared with a loud noise, then refilled itself just as quickly.

She then turned her attention to the desk. It was bare, made of painted metal, and attached to the wall. The accompanying chair was likewise attached to the floor.

She looked back to the bed. It had been soft. She was given blankets and a pillow.

What sort of demons gave pillows to their prisoners? What demons gave them cleanliness, running water and a lavatory? She suddenly thought of the King’s tributes she’d seen shortly after coming to Outworld. The woman with pleading eyes. They would surely not have conditions even a fraction as comfortable as these.

And yet, the Outworlders gave it to their prisoners?

Suddenly she heard a commotion coming from outside of the door. She laid her hands on it, cocking her head to hear the muffled sounds from outside. There was yelling-- Embrayyan she was sure, and a sharp voice speaking…

...speaking the tongue of Outworld, she was sure.

She heard the Outworlder’s voice growing closer to her door and stepped back in surprise as a panel on her door opened.

Human eyes looked through the panel at her, but they were covered, as if behind glass. She could only see the man’s head, but it was covered in a bright yellow material. He barked something at her, and Sizilen stepped back, toward the bed.

Then she watched as another panel in the door slid open, and a platform extended from it. A tray was placed on the platform.

The smell of bacon filled her nostrils. A moment later, both panels slid shut, leaving the tray on the platform.

She walked up to it. Bacon-- were those cooked eggs? There were white utensils with it. A four-pronked fork, a knife, a small ladle-- but they were made of some material she couldn’t identify. A piece of bread with a slightly scorched exterior was on the side.

Part of her suspected it might be poisoned, but-- she looked back to the automatic basin, the lavatory, then remembered the pangs of hunger she felt in her belly.

She picked up the tray and went to put it on the desk when she noticed something else. A sheet of paper lay under the tray. On it a number of small pictures.

She examined it as she began to eat the food. In Embrayya, prisoners did not eat bacon and eggs. She’d been a prisoner for a short time and she was lucky to get bread or oats with some dirty water that smelled of piss.

She almost cried while consuming the meal. If not for the big metal door, she would have assumed she was an honored guest rather than being held.

As she ate, she examined the sheet of paper. There were two sides to it. One side had a number of pictures of a man collecting a tray of food. She looked to her tray. It was listed from top to bottom-- a tray of food appearing. A man taking the tray. A man eating. A man placing the tray back on the platform.

She understood what it meant. It meant there were rules if she wanted to eat. She had to comply.

As if she had any other option.

She finished up her meal and placed the tray back on the platform, along with the little white utensils. She sat back at the desk and looked again at the paper, flipping it over. On it were a number of symbols. Outworlder writing, perhaps? Was she meant to read this series of lines and circles?

Wait, no. She looked closer. There were two columns running down the page; the top three rows were identical on both sides. A line and a cross, then a line, then two horizontal lines on top of one another.

However, the fourth row had two vertical lines on one side, and the other had three. She looked to the last row to see a circle, then a cross on an angle.

This wasn’t language-- it was a puzzle. Sizilen looked it over again. When one and one are together, they are two, but they are not three.

She understood. The circle was their symbol for truth, and the angled cross was their symbol for lies. It wasn’t a puzzle-- they were trying to teach her how to communicate with them.

What demons want to speak with their captors?

Were Outworlders truly evil like she’d been taught her whole life? Had they changed? Or was this part of some elaborate trick?

What purpose would such a trick serve?

She was drawn out of her focus as the panel on her cell door opened again, and she looked up to the guard. The lower panel slid open and the platform her tray sat upon was pulled through. The man outside looked to her.

Then he held up two fingers on each hand and showed them to her. He then pulled one hand down and brought up two other fingers on one hand, and looked Sizilen in the eye.

She understood. She raised her hands and put them together in the shape of a circle. The man on the other side of the door nodded, and then the panel closed.

She heard him walk away.

Was that it? A mere game they played? Would she have been executed had she gotten it wrong? Tortured?

It was all too confusing. But if it meant a chance to communicate, it might mean a chance to negotiate for her freedom and a return to Ayndir. Her father was still captive in the Wasted Lands, and despite Borou’s cowardice, she was still a Matriarch of her own Clan by the King’s own word. There was still too much to do, so even if it represented a slight chance at freedom, she would play their game.

Even if it did mean her execution.