Massua's time at this prison drastically changed since that conversation with that strange woman. It was curious, but she barely remembers anything about what occurred that day or anything that she said. When she took part in that feast, the world seems to become skewed and unclear. She almost thought of the strange woman in black as a friend, or at least someone she could talk to. She felt wrong when her senses came back, and she woke up in a completely different cell than before. Her lips and mouth felt numb like she had eaten something with terribly too much spice. At the very least she can be appreciative of the fact that she did not wake up on the cold moist ground next to the skeleton. She did not feel safer, looking at her surroundings, but she appreciated all of the small things afforded to her. Even that felt wrong.

She took a quick survey of her surroundings. She had woken up in a huge bed, twice the size of even her parents. The cushions were fluffy and filled with down. The sheets and blankets are made of the finest and smoothest of clothes and silk. She smelled them, and they caught some faint floral scent as well. Most definitely a luxury item they put in to placate her. She did not like that. She hated this. She threw the covers away, leaving the bed bare except for her. She was wearing a dress, nicer than hers by far and made of more fine things she could never have dreamed of finding in Liontari. If she had any better option, she would have torn the dress apart with her bare hands. The room around her was filled with nice things: books, stacks of parchments. Lanterns blazed in a dull yellow flame that blanketed the white painted walls and floor tiles. A small table was beside her bed, another handheld lamp and a tray of fresh tarts, heat still rising from the assortments as if fresh out of the oven. She threw it against the door, scattering the pastries all over the floor. Her fear had subsided, somewhat. It was still bubbling anger that had yet subsided. She was not going to accept this pampering. She was not going to take their niceties. It's obvious that they were going to do something that requires her to be complacent and cooperatives. If she was going to have to stay here and wait for Lyse to rescue her, it will be on her own time.

She walked to the door and kicked it several times. "You mute dunghills of men. I'm going to rip you all a new one."

The threats were empty and impossible to enforce, but it felt good nonetheless. The thought that Lyse had to save her mortified her enough. She sat in the room, silent and looking around her waiting for someone or something to happen. She tied to use her limited ability with zoi, but that proved to be pointless. She couldn't see the sigils, but they were still there, most likely scrawled between the walls themselves. Her circumstances have not really changed, after all. Even the "door" turned out to be another section of the wall with a frame around it. No seems no way for her to open it from this side unless she suddenly learned to use magic and the such. Magic felt outlandish to think of. But here it was. Here she was trying to figure out how to stop it. She clung to hope that Lyse would save her, that her mother and father were still alive trying to find her desperately. They must. From what she remembers, they had been in the thick of some fight, the house burning with them in it, and she sometimes dreamt about it in nightmares, her continuously running from the scene but never getting any further away. Always, over her shoulder, she was staring as her mother transformed into a lion and leaping into the fray to destroy those who threatened to hurt her, proclaiming in the old tongue: Yol timir al si. Cul Firas al echoie. You will die for this. My daughter, you must go. But she never could get away. She was always caught. She was always captured. The eyes of those soulless creatures stuffing her in a chest, too small for her comfort. The bare fangs of a bear ready to tear her throat out into the darkness. And worst of all, the return of that tall, boney figure that would grab her, Massua too afraid to even act. Her soul being pulled from her body, and then thrust back in. The phantom pain haunted her. She would not even dare to think of what had occurred that day. The time she used to think about it made her stomach twirl and spin.

They rarely entered the room. Occasionally, the door will open, and a woman would come in with a new tray to place on her little table. She thought it was the same woman, at least. She was beautiful, but once she left the room, she could not remember a detail about her face, besides she seemed disheartened to see her work being repeatedly thrown across the room every day. She ate very little of what they brought. That same feeling of the fuzziness that came from the feast before lingered when she ate this food as well. She ate just a bit of bread, some water, and left everything else to be cleaned by this woman. She would silently clean the room that she had wrecked, not speaking a word of complaint, or showing much emotion besides distaste. Eventually, despite herself, she began to feel bad for this maid or whoever she is. She felt odd when she moved, a little wobble in her step, but she was one of the few people that seemed to hint at some kind of emotion besides stoicism.

"I'm sorry, for wrecking the room so often," she had whispered as the woman turned to leave. As she turned, again, every detail about her face left her mind. But she still stopped, holding an empty tray and basket. "This place is scary to me. I don't know why I am here."

She turned her head slightly, only to speak a few words. "You will learn, girl. You will have a place."

"What place," she nearly shouted at her. "What are you talking about. Why did they burn my home? Where is my family."

"You don't need to know these things," the maid looked back out to the hall. From where Massua stood, it looked empty. "Just know that you are needed. You have a purpose, like all of us. You will have a place in the darkness."

She left, closing the door and the edges of the frame disappearing in an instant. Again, no answers. nothing hinting at why this was all happening. This organization, guild, whatever it is to be called. She could feel that it was evil. While hidden from her for now, its goals will most definitely bring harm to others and her family even further. She didn't know what to do, however. Up until a month ago, she was simply a farmer's daughter. She hadn't even figured what she was going to do with her life. Was she going to become a knight like Lyse? Or would she be settled with something else, perhaps joining a guild? Her friends, some of them were sons and daughters of guildsmen. She thought such a thing was amazing and spectacular, although her mother shunned her admiration as mere fantasies of a child who misunderstands the world. Her father was different, however. Much like how he treated Lyse with his admiration for the sword and dreams of becoming a knight, he reluctantly shared his passions with her dreams as well. When she was growing up, she always thought her father a simple man. Perhaps Lyse did as well. He seemed too disinterested with the world, not caring for news of the conflicts of the outlands more than the relations with Torlak. In fact, if it didn't affect his life or his children, then he cared little of what the world behind their walls could bring.

But she remembers, when she was younger, the stories he would tell them. The fantastical worlds he would paint in her ears sparked something she knew was a part of her and him. That will to run off into the hills and see what the world hid away. And the way he spoke about him revealed he was more learned than they realized. And while they always saw their mother as the level headed one in the family, their father truly held the heart. She couldn't help but miss his supportive words. It was hard for her to grasp that she truly was alone here, and the possibility that no one will come for her only grew more and more.

Several more days passed with only that maid coming in or out. She still barely ate or drank anything they gave her. However, it seems that they upped the dosage of whatever they put in it so that even if she took small portions, the effect was still similar. And this she began to eat just a little less each time, taking either only a piece of bread and a swallow of water to keep her through the day. She questioned why she was doing this. Why is she going to just length just not to eat? She doesn't even know if what they are doing is bad. She just feels like it must be. They have shown her little hostility since she moved here. Perhaps this was her small way of conserving control. Maybe this was her way of coping with the fact that she had no control, and she was merely at the wills of these people. She tried not to dwell on such facts, they made her feel even more dreadful. She could not give up, she resolved. If she gave in, then everything leading up to this would have been pointless. Above all else, she must have hope that things will get better.

Another week or so into her captivity, she finally gave in to boredom and curiosity. All this time, she has not touched the book sitting on the desk opposite her bed. The books were massive volumes, written in the old tongue, which she thankfully, knew how to read. The old tongue was the language used before adopting the more modern alphabet, Rekeg, something used to communicate with Torlak and Hath. The Old tongue is still taught, but rarely is it used, as a thousand years of under usage placed it in the back of people's minds most often. She's even met people who didn't speak it at all and spoke the Rekeg language only. Their mother insisted that they needed to know such things, but never explained why. Maybe it could come in useful someday, like on a formal occasion. They mostly only ever use it at funerals or weddings, a time of great importance to a person's life. But that's all. It was merely a tradition, she supposed.

To see an entire book written in the old tongue seemed off. Apparently, it was meant to be read in the clans, and nowhere else. She opened the dusty, almost fragile front leather cover. The yellow parchment aged to stiff sheets. On them, scrawled in neat letters was what appeared to be a collection of stories or accounts. They were organized by age, and the year noted on the first was 903 Old era. Over 2034 years ago. An entirely different era. The words didn't seem familiar either, some conversation spoken in rhyme between a general and a soldier, commenting on the weather for some reason while a battle was taking place. They flipped the page, finding another poem, shorter than the first but appeared to recount an event happening on the country's eastern shores, a blight that destroyed many crops and farm animals. She skipped ahead millennia in order to find something a bit more familiar. She came across one dated 1 of Kalman, the new era. A letter to a clan's king. This was familiar to her.

I bid your wellness, kind sir who chase alongside the wolves. I have been informed of your recent uncovering of archaic and powerful means, and wish for this information to be shared and propagated amongst all the children of the forest. I must tell you that what has been told in a whisper about the lion speakers are unaccounted and untrue. Our lands have been given form not by the means of man but of our shared mother. This formation we make, this so-called empire, as the destroyers south call us, is first and for most made to serve our lands and protect our people. And those who fly the skies have agreed with us. A reunion of our lands will be to assure our dominance as granted to us. Men over the west mountains still thirst for what they do not fully understand and only see as-

The rest was torn, but she knew what it was. She had heard it, studied it many times with her mother when she was small. It was the letter of the first king of what is now called Liontari over 1201 years ago, the turn of the age. She realizes what she holds isn't a collection of stories, but more akin to a history book comprised of accounts, letters, and poems dating back to extremely ancient times before the clans were thought and men warred like anxious ants. Why was this thing here? It belonged in one of the Assemblies as a well-guarded artifact. Scholars would have a frenzy if they discovered such a thing. And to have what may be an original copy for all she knows, this organization gets unsettling every day.

"I see you have taken an interest in the stories."

She nearly jumped out of her seat as the voice made hairs stand on the back of her neck. It was that same made. She hadn't realized how much time had passed, sitting here and only reading this tome. She set the tray down on the small table, piled with more sweets even than before. Massua tried extra hard to get her features down, this time, writing them down on the parchment while she looked at the woman. The woman didn't seem to notice or care. She had a nice lean face, beautiful. Her eye were a startling golden, hair strait and light hazel. Her dress flowed a white silky texture, almost fading at its fringes. The way she walked still seemed hobbled. Her bare legs seemed normal, but clumsy in how they stepped. Was it some sort of injury or the sort then? There was no scar or any hinting to crippling. How odd.

"You know what this is?" Massua asked. "Why is it here."

"I don't know," the maid said. "I can make guesses, but I'm sure you figured that everything in this room has a purpose."

"I didn't expect you to tell me this," Massua admitted.

The maid seemed taken aback by this as if considering something that had just occurred to her. "Indeed. How odd. I guess I am also a bit curious about you. This is the first time interacting with an Opal."

Massua raised a puzzled expression to her. "I think you have me confused with someone else. My family is a bunch of farmers. Had been for generations. We're not really important."

For some reason, as she talked, it all felt like one big lie. Perhaps she has yet to consider this. What use would a farming girl who spends her evening milking cows and flirting with the squires have to a bunch of assassins and murders? Their family has nothing of value besides her mother's old necklace. But was that enough to burn down an entire house to find? And how her mother fought, her turning into a lion in her dreams. Her father shoots beams of light through his sword. The small condescending smile on the maid's face even hinted that she was not considering the bigger picture.

"Maybe that is what your parents wanted you to think, child," the maid said. "They have been hiding something grand from you, lying to keep you away from what you really are."

"Were they soldiers then?" Massua asked, more so to herself than the maid. "But why . . . "

"A soldier?" the maid asked. "My, how far did they go to keep such a thing from you. No, child, they were not soldiers. They were the greatest commanders in the king's army in the time he was a prince."

"That . . . why? you are lying. Why are you lying about this?"

"I have no reason to lie to you."

"Except to deceive me, trick me into doing what you want," she defiantly stood from her desk. She was far shorter than the woman, a good hand and a half, but she didn't let that show in her tone. "Out. I wish not to hear more of these lies."

"But you will confront them," the maid dejected, though she was already moving towards the door. "You can not ignore the truth. It will haunt you forever. You are more than some simple farmer, Massua Opal. The sooner that you see it, the better."

She was frozen where she stood. It was a rocking thought, that her parents were more than they seemed. That they will go to the lengths of playing as farmers to protect her and Lyse. Was it true? Nothing made sense otherwise. Celia and Wilbur seemed too ordinary to her, even among the other townspeople they did not stand out or made a note. The most exciting thing they have ever done was her father participating in a hunt for a drakon spotted out in the fields. But the accounts has always been that he merely drew it with arrows to where some guildsmen can slay it themselves. Her mother on the other hand was starkly ordinary, even compared to her father. She rarely leaves her land, and when she does it's for the briefest of things. She knows none of her friends, as she warned her not to go near the tavern they worked at. Despite the fact that the daughter of such a friend expressed the want to marry Lyse once they both came of age. Now that she looks back on it, her mother tried too hard to be ordinary, and the further back she went, the more she found herself skeptical of her past. She barely remembers anything in fact, of her life before she was six years old. The last memory was watching her father in the fields, looking at the sunset with a smile on his face, holding her mother in his arms.

So what was true? She felt the need to reread the tome. Maybe she may find some answers buried within them. She sat down and began to pick through the pages, starting at 1075, when her mother and father first met. This part was especially thick with a plethora of documents, letters, and accounts going from the outland excursions to the empire civil war. She saw nothing that really rung a bell, just informants reporting on the state of the empire and the difficulty of food being distributed through the northern clans due to the Frostlands raids those seasons. However, one thing did catch her eye. It was a formal letter, a copy rather. It was between two people, one being referred to as the diamond and the other the wind. The conversation seemed confusing, more a jumble of letters arranged in strange rows and columns. Than anything.

Har ken tom edia mon dyo url ead erh asb een cau ght and tra ppe dbe low the cob alt sea The kin gho lds her cap tiv ean dis onl ywi lli ngt otr ade you rli fef orh erm ywi feh ase xpr ess edh esi tat ion for acc ept ing thi sof fer, but wek now tha tth isd eci sio nis you rst oma keI don tth ink asi ngl eme mbe rof the urg yca nbl ame you one way ort heo the rwe owe som uch toy oua ndy ouh old rev ere nce for our mig hty oum aya rri vea tth esu mmi tof the dom eif you wis hre ply.