The room Charlotte led him into was bare, stripped of the lavish golds and silks Arlo had begun to associate with the place. Nothing grand, no polished marble floors, no symbols of royal pride.
Just Daphne, standing stiff as a blade against the wall, her hands folded behind her back, and a plain wooden door at the far end of the room.
Plain wasn't even the right word. The thing looked wrong in this place.
Six iron hatches ran across its face, locking it shut like the maw of a beast that had been chained against its will.
Arlo slowed his steps, his eyes flicking from Charlotte, to Daphne, to the door. "So… what exactly is this 'finishing touch' you keep going on about?"
Charlotte, moving with her usual lazy elegance, strolled toward the door. "At the moment," she began, "you're just a Flame. Or—" she tilted her head toward him, as if indulging a child "—an Adept, in the human tongue."
Arlo raised a brow, suspicion curling in his voice. "Flame? Adept?"
Charlotte turned, surprise written across her face. Her brows arched like a teacher catching a student dozing off mid-lesson. "You don't know the scaling of even your own race? That's common knowledge among humans. Even peasants' children could recite it."
Arlo forced a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "My memory's… a little funny at the moment."
Charlotte's eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought she'd press the point.
He could almost see her thoughts written across her smirk: liar. But instead, she only let out a quiet chuckle and waved the matter aside.
"Very well. A Flame—or Adept—is a mortal at their peak," she explained, her voice slipping into a lecturer's rhythm. "Your body and magic are refined to the edge of the supernatural. Stronger than most humans could dream of. But…" She paused, her gaze sharp enough to pin him where he stood. "…right now, you have both the strength and abilities of a Flame, but lack the experience. Strength without experience is nothing. It makes you no more than a child given a sword."
She reached the door as she said it, her hand hovering just above the first iron hatch.
Arlo trailed closer, watching her with cautious eyes. "So I'm guessing gaining that experience involves me fighting?"
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, her smile playful and knowing. "Precisely."
Daphne, still silent, stepped forward as Charlotte flicked her fingers in signal. With a sharp nod, the knight began removing the hatches, one by one. Each heavy clang of metal against stone echoed through the chamber, reverberating up Arlo's spine like the ticking of a countdown.
Arlo squinted at the door, trying to make sense of what was waiting behind it. "So what's back there?"
"The Maw," Charlotte said smoothly, her fingers trailing along the wooden surface as if petting a beast through its cage. "A prison. A pit. A grave for those too dangerous or too worthless to be kept among society. Murderers, traitors, failed champions… they all rot inside. The deeper you fall, the stronger they get."
Arlo's mouth twisted. "Sounds cheerful."
Charlotte's lips quirked. "It has its charm."
Another hatch dropped.
The sound rang out sharper this time, as if the door itself was eager to be unbound.
Arlo edged forward, curiosity tugging at him despite the unease prickling down his neck. "So what—are we going to pick one of these poor bastards and throw him in the ring with me? Some kind of one-on-one spar to break me in?"
The last hatch came loose with a groan of iron. Daphne stepped back, the task complete. The door loomed unshackled before them, its dark surface humming with an energy that made the hairs on Arlo's arm rise.
The wood creaked open, slow and heavy, revealing only blackness beyond. No torchlight, no floor.
Just an endless gulf of shadow that seemed to swallow even the faint light of the chamber.
Arlo leaned slightly, squinting into the abyss. "So how are we gonna do this? Do we select them one by one, line 'em up like a fighting tournament? Or—"
"Welllll…" Charlotte's voice coiled from behind him, drawn out with dangerous amusement. "We had something else in mind."
That tone.
Arlo stiffened, instincts screaming. He didn't need a prophet to tell him he was about to regret asking.
He turned his head, just enough to catch her smirk at the corner of his eye.
"…Wait." His gut twisted. "You're not—"
He didn't get to finish.
A soft palm pressed against his back.
Too gentle to be threatening, too firm to resist. Before he could react, the ground vanished from under his feet.
The world tilted.
His stomach lurched.
Wind roared past his ears.
He was falling.
The last thing he heard before the darkness swallowed him whole was Charlotte's laugh, sweet and unbothered, echoing like a bell in his skull.
"Take care husband, and try not to miss me too much."
"..."