Before I can respond, reality tears. We fall through nothing, through the spaces between spaces. My stomach inverts. My lungs forget their purpose. Every cell in my body screams that this is wrong, that humans weren't meant to travel like this.
Then.
Solid ground. A vast hall that belongs in no sane architecture. Pillars twist up into darkness, defying physics. The floor reflects stars that shouldn't exist. The air tastes purple and sounds like midnight.
I land on my feet, barely. My hand moves toward my boot, toward the knife, but I stop myself. Not yet. Too soon.
"Welcome to my realm," he says, releasing my hand. The absence of cold leaves my skin burning. "Your new home."
Home. The word sits like ash in my mouth.
I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and meet those burning eyes. Let him think he's won. Let him think I'm just another desperate human who sold herself for survival.
I sold myself for something much simpler.
Revenge.
YORIKA
Footsteps echo from one of the passages. Not normal footsteps: these sound like mountains learning to walk. Like granite grinding against steel with purposeful intent.
What emerges matches the sound.
Eight feet of living stone, but not carved, grown. Formed. The surface shifts between rough granite and polished obsidian as he moves. Four arms, each as thick as my torso, end in hands that could crush steel like paper. His head is a rough suggestion of features, like someone started carving a face and decided halfway through that expressions were unnecessary.
His eyes are liquid metal that reflects everything and reveals nothing.
"Master." The word rumbles up from somewhere deep, tectonic plates shifting to form speech. Those metal eyes fix on me, and I see my death reflected in them seventeen different ways. "This is the acquisition?"
"My bride." Nezavek says it simply, but the word carries weight.
The stone giant doesn't move, but somehow gives the impression of deepening disapproval. "She requires containment protocols."
"She requires quarters." Nezavek's tone brooks no argument. "And an introduction. Yorika, this is Mikaere. He maintains the realm's security."
Security. That's one word for it. I suspect jailer might be more accurate.
Mikaere inclines his massive head slightly. Not a bow, not respect, just acknowledgment that I exist. "She's armed."
He says it like stating the weather. Observational. Matter-of-fact. The kind of tone that suggests he could disarm me before I processed the thought to reach for a weapon.
"Of course she is." Something in Nezavek's voice might be amusement. Or anticipation.
"The knife in her boot. The poison in her bracelet. The ceramic blade sewn into her dress." Mikaere lists each weapon without looking, without searching. He just knows. "Should I remove them?"
"No."
Mikaere's stone form shifts, a grinding sound of protest. "Master."
"They're hers. She keeps them." Nezavek's tone ends the discussion.
Another long look passes between them. Not an argument exactly, but a conversation in silence.
"Take her to the library," Nezavek says finally. "Päivi will arrange quarters."
"Are you certain?" Mikaere's tone suggests he'd rather throw me in an actual dungeon.
"The library."
