Althea dreamt of Lantris. She and Arévis were picking flowers in a meadow, laughing, the sun bright against an expanse of cloudless blue. Arévis’ hair was almost white, it was so pale. Her eyes were a deep blue like the ocean. She had a bouquet of dandelions in her hands.

  “They’re for you,” Arévis said, smiling, her cheeks chubby with youth. Her arms were outstretched, presenting the gift with childish innocence.

  Now she was in a small grove, shaded by young trees and surrounded by driftwood and sand. Terran was strumming on his lute, singing a gentle tune. Althea wanted to kiss him.

  Terrified, she was dying for air. She had fallen off her driftwood boat in a small canal. She was down deep, trying to swim upward before she ran out of breath. A shimmer of particles danced under refracted sunbeams. She could see the gleam of a silver fish, swimming placidly. Arévis and Terran pulled her up. Gabriel watched from behind them, shrouded in darkness.

  She awoke, gasping for air and reaching for their hands.

  There were no hands, but the water was only waist deep. She coughed and gasped until the fluid was gone from her lungs. She was sitting in a tank. She touched the edges of the transparent material, not hard like glass, but malleable like some kind of membrane…

  She withdrew her hand as if she had touched a slug. There were other tanks next to her, lining the walls of the domed, circular chamber. They were filled with a cloudy fluid. She investigated her own tank to see the same translucent fluid. She lifted her hands and watched the liquid run down her arms. Ahead of her was a corridor that she couldn’t see the end of. Tumescent and faintly glowing green vines ran along the ceiling and affixed themselves to the tanks. The entire facility was lit by a low, eerie white glow that came from swollen, orb-shaped fixtures on the walls. They looked like fruit hanging off the vine.

  She reached behind her to find the vines connecting to her tank. It was jarring as she felt the strange viscosity of the fluid stir around her, but she touched the connection, fascinated. She ran her hand inside the cloudy tank to find the juncture where the vines seemed to feed in the fluid. Sure enough, she could feel a light current flow into and out of the tank. She’d have to conduct tests to find out what exactly was in it, but from what she could sense, it was full of compounds that she had never encountered before in her years of green magic training.

  She glanced further down the corridor and could see, mounted upon shelves, the glass of vials glinting in the phosphorescence of the enigmatic organisms. There wasn’t much time to absorb what was in the vials or how the shelves melded seamlessly with the walls, because a figure was walking down the corridor.

  Black hair, pale skin.

  Suddenly memories came flooding back to her about the forest—the strange people who spoke in silence—the legion of Artificers—the man with the tangled hair and chilling voice who had told her to burn through the gate.

  “It is alright,” said no voice at all, “he is not here.”

  Althea backed up in her tank, trying to get away as fast as possible. The stillness of the water broke, and she splashed and flailed.

  “Please calm down,” no voice said. His tone was soothing in her mind, like someone whispering into her thoughts.

  She saw Arévis standing there instead. She was waiting for a sendoff to The Artificer’s Guild.

  “Don’t leave without me,” Althea said, standing up and walking towards her.

  “I won’t,” Arévis said.

  Althea blinked, and it was no longer Arévis standing there, but the young man in the strange laboratory. She clutched at her soaking curls, then wiped at her damp face. She was dripping with the slick, cloudy fluid, naked.

  “You endured quite an ordeal,” noo voice said into her mind. “But you are safe now.”

  Althea’s eyes darted around the lab, searching for Arévis.

  The man flinched, but then relaxed the next instant.

  “She is safe. In that tank, there,” his voice was pleasantly neutral, yet still off-putting in a way she couldn't put her finger on.

  Althea looked where he had directed, behind her, next to the empty tank she had risen from.

  Arévis was curled up in the fetal position. The association made Althea view the tanks differently. They resembled seed pods, or… wombs.

  “She’ll drown.” Althea croaked, her throat sore.

  “It is a breathable fluid. I helped develop it,” the disembodied voice in her head said. No, the man said.

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  Althea knelt by the pod, as if to make sure she was alive. She reached into the cloudy fluid, touching her wrist. There was a pulse. She pulled back, not totally satisfied, but no longer panicked. After all, she had risen from one of these tanks alive and still breathing.

  A small, desperate voice that couldn’t have been hers asked, “Will she wake up?”

  “Yes. She should wake up soon,” the man said, still calm as ever.

  Althea stood up and whipped around. She could feel lucidity returning to her.

  “Where are we?” She demanded.

  “It is… difficult to explain. Would you like some clothes and food first?”

  Althea frowned at this, but gave him a brisk nod. Strangely, she didn’t feel cold at all. She had almost forgotten that she needed clothes, or that she used to wear them.

  The man was dressed in all white. Who was he?

  “My name is Cyrus,” he said. She watched his face as they walked down the corridor, side by side. It was strange to listen to the thoughts he sent her and to watch as his mouth didn’t move.

  He was not much taller than her, and slightly built. He was not an imposing figure—shouldn’t have been. But when he looked at her, his eyes were wide and grey, bright and terrifying.

  “I apologize. I know it can be unsettling to converse with a telepath.” He attempted a faint smile. Suddenly he looked friendlier, less like he was trying to burrow into her skull with just his eyes.

  Althea cringed at that visual.

  They strode past the strange orbs and shelves full of bottles and thick, tubular bundles on the wall that had to be some kind of irrigation or plumbing system.

  “You are right to think of them like fruit,” Cyrus said, gesturing at the orbs with the grace of a dancer.

  “Stop,” Althea blurted, trying to articulate in her own mind what to say. “Stop responding to things I haven’t said.”

  Cyrus nodded. “As you wish.”

  He looked slightly more withdrawn as they came across a shelf with fresh linen. There appeared to be robes and dresses of light, white materials. Althea reached for a dress and pulled it over her head. It was the lightest silk she had ever touched. She stood there for a moment, realizing that she didn’t have a destination. She was at Cyrus’s mercy.

  “What happened in the forest?” She asked, turning to face him directly.

  “You came upon the Gate of Thorns. That is where you met The Artificers.” Cyrus’s voice was blank like a piece of clean parchment.

  “They were trying to get in?” Althea demanded.

  He nodded slowly.

  “Along with the wanderers,” she prodded, calling them what Arévis had.

  “Yes.” He said.

  She waited.

  “Were they your brothers and sisters?” Althea guessed.

  “Among my many brothers and sisters.” Cyrus said, giving that slight smile again. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sad when he said it.

  “After The Artificers were subdued, Ezra coerced you into burning your way in. You were tired and could not make your way on your own. Your companions helped you reach our city,” he continued.

  Althea frowned. “Companions?”

  “Yes.” Cyrus paused for a moment. “Ah. You do not wish to see them, for they were your assailants.”

  Althea rushed back to rip them out of those pods. She hoped they were the only things keeping them alive.

  “Please wait,” he implored, neutral as ever. “I ask that you harm no one here—even if you may hate them.”

  Althea stopped her tirade, remembering that she was at the mercy of a black mage in some strange place that she knew nothing about.

  “And what of—Ezra, was it?—is he being kept here safely as well?” She asked, still running hot.

  “No.” Cyrus said. She could read no emotion on his face or from the voice echoing in her mind.

  That calmed her a little.

  Cyrus inhaled in excitement and gestured forward, towards what appeared to be some kind of door, made of the same membranous material as the tanks. The sound startled Althea a little, since he made almost no outward noises.

  “Shall we? I promised you food,” he insisted..

  “Are you incapable of speaking normally?” Althea asked, realizing right after she said it that it may have been tactless.

  His eyes softened, and he looked at her. “None of my strain are capable of physical speech.”

  His strain? So were there more of him like the wanderers? She had so many questions, but was overwhelmed with new stimuli.

  “Why are you helping us?” Althea asked, suddenly suspicious. “What happened after we got through the gate?”

  “There are fail safes in place if someone from the outside gets through. You were subdued by a powerful particulate that causes unconsciousness,” Cyrus explained.

  “You poisoned me? And Arévis?” She fumed.

  There was a genuine look of fear in his eyes as he flinched again. She wondered if he had seen what she could do with just a little bit of fire.

  “Outsiders are not meant to get through the gate,” he defended.

  Althea toyed with the possibility of toasting him on the spot. But then she thought of the screams of The Artificers that she had burned, and a strong influx of nausea hit her like a wave. She nearly vomited.

  This seemed to placate Cyrus.

  “I also healed you.”

  She did not think he was lying about this.

  “Why are the others still recovering?” She asked, still on edge.

  “Please… later. Mother will speak with you, and there will be no confusion.” Again, he gestured for her to follow him through the membranous door.