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Heeyyy! Late is the order of the day, it seems. I had good intentions of replying right away, but events conspired against me and here I am, two days later.

The sand in the Ring would be hot tomorrow, but for now, the air outside was bitingly cold as always. Kianda reveled in the fierce wind, hardly noticing that the metal beneath her was so cold it seemed to burn through her thin clothes. Above, the thin streamers of clouds could not hide the beauty of the night skies, and for a little while, Kianda let herself forget that tomorrow, she would fight in the Ring, that tomorrow, she would kill once more. It was only when she could scarcely feel her hands that she reluctantly stepped back into her narrow room. Still, she was restless, not quite tired enough to risk the nightmares that came with sleep.

When she first heard the sound, she thought she was imagining things. Music was a rare sound in the Ring’s hallways. But the song grew louder, and as it did, Kianda knew that, strange as it seemed, the sound was real. Taking up her glaive – for she seldom went anywhere without it – Kianda went in search of the source.

The halls of the Ring are strange at best, treacherous at worst. They twist and turn throughout the tall, thin spires that tower above the arena. It is easy to get lost in them, or to wander into one of the areas where gangs roam. On that night, they were eerie, echoing with otherworldly music. Kianda followed the sound through the areas she knew into hallways she had rarely visited. At last, she found herself facing a ladder leading up into the darkness; she must have reached the top of the spire.

Kianda was not generally foolhardy, but tonight, she shrugged, slung her glaive over her back, and began to climb.

Goya woke from strange dreams with a sense of relief. He disliked dreams; they made so little sense and were therefore difficult to control. Remembering the events of last night’s meeting, Goya smiled to himself. There was much to do if he was going to pull off a revolution. Dim, predawn light filtered through the windows and a few birds chattered outside. Despite the early hour, Goya felt energized, eager to get to work.

He would regret that later.

Had it been a door that he had never noticed before, had it been carved in intricate runes, had it been anything out of the ordinary, Goya would have ignored it. He may have been adventurous, but he was not stupid; he would not make the same mistake twice, even if the first time had been in a dream.

But it was only the door to his study, and Goya saw no reason to be afraid of a door he walked through every day. When he opened it, he did not think of the lack of light; clearly, someone had closed the drapes. He barely thought of the fact that no light from the hallway spilled through the opening. After all, there was little enough light in the hallway to begin with.

Afterwards, Goya would curse his inattention. At the time, he merely strode through the door, whistling in a carefree manner, strapping his knives around his waist, face still damp from his morning routine.

Then the door shut behind him with a soft click, and utter darkness descended.

@ragnarok @this-is-not-an-alien @hannahrenner @reveriewriter @kimlikesart