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Rowan eyed the chamber warily as the braziers extinguished.  Clearly there was some form of magic at work in the castle.  Though a magical being herself, Rowan had no particular desire to tangle with a powerful mage.  Her skill lied in her sword, not in her spellcraft.

The elf’s thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the heavy oaken door swinging closed on its hinges.  Rowan quickly turned around and tried to reopen it, but there was no knob or handle, only smooth wood.  Wood she was now sure was enchanted against whatever magical means she may have of reopening it.  Cautiously, the elf turned around once more and followed the braziers that remained lit.  They led up a stair to a grand chamber with a vaulted ceiling and towering windows that let in great blinding shafts of light.  At the far end of the chamber, centered on a dais, was a high-backed chair intricately carved out of wood.  Yew wood.

Yew meant death, Rowan knew that.  All fae knew that.  She did not like that throne, she did not like the chamber it resided in.  Suddenly Rowan felt as though entering this castle unbidden and unwelcomed was a dangerous mistake.  The castle – or whatever unseen mage guided it – wanted Rowan to sit in that throne.  Yet she had a feeling to do so would mean death of some nature.

“What is this place?” she whispered, still staring at the carven throne.  She did not hear the door open behind her.