Ares followed Emma through the long corridor. Pale bars of light stretched under their feet like a cage. She walked without sound, her hands behind her back, until she stopped at an iron door that looked like all the others.
The number 726 was cut into the metal, sharp and plain. She rested her hand on it but did not open it.
"My lord," she said, her voice cold and precise, "remember this door. If you forget and try another, the result will be unfortunate. This is the way you will go in and out when it is time to convince the healer to grant you a lens. I will show you the way, but after that it is up to you."
Ares blinked. Unfortunate?
The word stuck in his mind. He remembered the dungeon of chained, broken figures; the laughter in an empty yard; the soft garden that had almost pulled him in. A shiver ran through him.
"What do you mean… unfortunate?" he asked.
Emma turned her head a fraction, eyes still on the iron. "I believe you already know, my lord. You were wise not to step inside. "
Her tone was flat. No comfort in it.
She stepped aside and gestured down the hall. "For your rest, remember door number seven. That is your chamber. You may return there when you need to. But this door"—she tapped the iron marked 726—"is where you must come when it is time to seek the lens."
Ares's jaw tightened. The thought of returning to either door weighed on him.
"If he's a friend of the Master, why do I have to convince him?"
"The man you will meet has a difficult nature," Emma said. "He does not like modern magicians. Even Lord Arwen's strength is hard for him to bear. They are friends, but not in the way you expect."
That only left Ares more unsure. He glanced at the burning sea beyond the arches, then let out a slow breath. "If I need answers, how do I reach you? I was lost before. I couldn't find you. I didn't even know how to open a way back."
Emma paused, then gave a short nod. "My oversight."
She reached into her dress and whispered a spell. A spark flickered between her fingers. When it faded, a small stone lay in her palm. She placed it in his hand.
"This will let us speak. Focus on it, say my name, and I will hear you. I will come if I can."
Ares felt a faint hum in the stone and nodded.
"Good," Emma said. She pressed her hand to the door. It groaned open. Pale light spilled across the floor. "Now, my lord. Step forward."
Ares leaned into the gray beyond.
White stone stretched in every direction. Pale sand shifted beneath his feet. The ground felt loose, as if hollow underneath. The air was damp and heavy. Each breath clung in his throat.
He lifted his head and found a gray, lifeless sky, as if the world itself were already dead.
The door stayed open behind them, a dark square in the waste.
"What is this place?" Ares asked.
"One of the realms tied to the Master's house," Emma said. "He conquered them. He keeps what he finds useful here, where he can reach it quickly."
"How many realms are there?"
"More than you could count," she said. "He adds and removes them as he wishes. Even I don't know them all, and even I don't dare venture in unkown doors. You were lucky before. Some worlds would have killed you the moment you stepped inside. You were wise not to go farther."
Ares thought of the dungeon, the laughter, the schoolroom with no desks. A shiver went through him. He thanked, silently, whatever had kept him from stepping in.
"And who lives here?" he asked.
"A friend of Master," Emma said. "He is a unique man." She offered nothing more.
She stopped at a patch of ground that looked like all the rest. She raised her hand and spoke words Ares could not follow. The air shivered. A spark ran across her fingers.
Light flashed.
When Ares blinked, something stood where there had been nothing.
An old wooden shack leaned in the waste, its planks bent and crooked. A man sat in a rocking chair before it. The chair creaked forward and back. A fishing rod rested in his hands, the line hanging into empty air.
His eyes were sharp. Too sharp. Old anger burned in them.
As the last shimmer of Emma's spell faded, the man turned his head.
"You again!" His voice cut through the stillness. "Always spoiling it! Always souring the air!" He struck the rod against the stone, splinters falling. His gaze fixed on Emma. "Abominable woman! Your mana stinks of rot. You poison what you touch."
Emma did not move. Her face was cold as stone.
"He dislikes us, my lord," she said. "I cannot remain. But the Master says he will not refuse you."
She turned to the man. Her voice was formal. "Mr. Rodman, greetings. This is Master Arwen's first apprentice. He seeks a mana lens. The matter rests with you."
She did not wait for his reply. Her robes whispered across the pale sand as she walked back to the open door. For a moment Ares thought he saw something in her eyes—fear, quick and sharp—but then it was gone. She stepped through the doorway and disappeared.
Ares stood in the gray waste, the crooked shack before him, the furious old man rocking in his chair.
Rodman turned away. His eyes went back to the empty air where the line hung. The chair creaked. He gave no sign that Ares was there.
"Sir—" Ares began.
The old man did not look at him.
Ares took a step closer. "Please—"
The world bent.
He blinked, and the sand was gone. He was back in the hallway. The door with the number 726 stood before him. Pale bars of light stretched across the floor.
His chest rose and fell. He should have felt sick from the shift, but he didn't. He felt steady, as if nothing had touched him.
He closed his eyes, breathed out, then opened them again.
"What the hell just happened?"
The door waited. The number 726 was clear in the iron.
He set his hand to the handle, gathered his resolve, and stepped once more into the gray sands.