They did not tell him where they were taking him.
They did not need to.
The magick tightened without warning—not violently, not cruelly—but with the certainty of something that had already decided. Green-black ichor bled up from seams in the stone beneath Tein's boots, emerging from cracks so fine they had been invisible moments earlier. It flowed with unnatural smoothness, climbing him in deliberate coils that adjusted as he shifted weight, compensating before muscle and balance could complete the motion.
It was not binding him.
It was accounting for him.
He remained upright.
Then the ground carried him forward.
Not dragged.
Not shoved.
The stone itself subtly reoriented beneath his feet, inclining forward by degrees so slight they would have gone unnoticed without the Force. Forward became easier than stillness. Resistance would have meant fighting gravity itself rather than the restraint.
The corridor opened ahead of them as they advanced.
Walls slid aside in thick segments, not cleanly separated but parting along organic seams with low, resonant sounds—stone flexing rather than doors opening. The passage was ancient, not carved for beauty or symmetry, but worn into shape through repeated use. The walls bore long, shallow abrasions where staffs and bodies had brushed past for generations. Mineral deposits streaked the surface like old scars, catching faint red light and dulling it rather than reflecting.
The ceiling hung low at first, forcing compression—then rose abruptly into a vaulted span riddled with fissures and hanging growth. Fungal masses clung overhead, translucent and veined, their interiors pulsing faintly in response to movement below. When Tein passed beneath them, their glow dimmed by a fraction, as if conserving attention.
Witches flanked him on either side.
Not guards.
Anchors.
Their spacing was exact—close enough that the magick between them overlapped, far enough that none could be isolated. Each carried a staff etched with layered sigils worn smooth at the grip, the markings dulled not by neglect but by constant contact. The magick braided between them continuously, a living lattice that reinforced the restraint not through force, but through agreement.
Tein felt it clearly.
This was not one Nightsister holding him.
It was the coven agreeing—actively, constantly—that he would not go elsewhere.
Talzin walked ahead.
She did not look back.
Her pace matched the cavern's rhythm perfectly. Each footfall seemed to settle something unseen, as though space itself aligned around her presence. The air ahead of her felt thinner, more cooperative, while behind her it thickened subtly, discouraging pursuit.
Here, resistance would not have felt like defiance.
It would have felt like ignorance.
Tein tested the restraint once—no more than a controlled tightening of muscle, just enough to trace the edges of its response.
The ichor adjusted instantly.
Not constricting.
Correcting.
Pressure redistributed along his legs, compensating for leverage, neutralizing the attempt before it could complete itself. There was no punishment in it. No warning.
Only recalibration.
He released the effort and allowed himself to be carried deeper.
The air changed as they descended.
Temperature rose by slow degrees, warmth settling into joints and breath rather than skin. Humidity thickened, saturated with layered residue—old ichor, mineral vapor, and the faint metallic sweetness of power that had passed through this place too many times to dissipate fully. Each inhale felt heavier than the last, not suffocating, but occupied.
The Force thickened in parallel.
Not turbulent.
Not aggressive.
Simply full.
This was not a place meant to be empty.
They passed chambers Tein felt more than saw.
Wide cavities where chants had once locked geometry into place so thoroughly the stone still remembered the shape of voices. Narrow passages where bodies had been reshaped—or unmade—incrementally, power applied in stages rather than bursts. Some spaces felt compressed, as though the walls still leaned inward around old failures. Others felt stretched, their proportions subtly wrong, as if something had tried to grow larger than the space allowed.
The land did not judge.
It retained.
At last, the corridor widened into a circular chamber carved directly from bedrock.
No standing stones.
No overt carvings.
The walls curved inward slightly toward the ceiling, forming a dome whose apex disappeared into shadow. The stone here was darker, denser, veined with mineral lines arranged with unnatural precision. Sigils were not etched into the surface—they were embedded, variations in density and composition placed so deliberately that only the Force revealed their presence.
Containment without spectacle.
Talzin stopped at the chamber's exact center.
Only then did she turn.
Two witches stepped forward at her silent signal.
The restraint loosened just enough for Tein's arms to be guided away from his sides. One staff hooked cleanly beneath the emitter of his lightsaber; another pressed lightly at his wrist—not forcing, not threatening.
Expectant.
Tein did not resist.
The saber left his belt with a muted click that sounded louder than it should have in the enclosed space.
Its hilt was matte gunmetal, textured for grip rather than ornament. The surface bore the subtle wear of constant use—contact points smoothed by familiarity, not neglect. Faint Zabrak protective etchings ran along its length, precise and unobtrusive. Narrow attunement channels at the pommel linked the weapon to Tein's Force signature, a resonance so subtle it barely disturbed the chamber.
Barely.
For a single heartbeat, the Force shifted.
Not alarm.
Not anger.
Awareness.
The weapon's absence registered like pressure released from a joint long held tight. The sigils in the walls recalibrated minutely, adjusting for the missing variable.
The Nightsister who took it did not test its weight.
Did not ignite the blade.
She wrapped the hilt in treated hide marked with binding sigils and passed it on without comment.
The coven did not look at Tein as they did it.
They looked at Talzin.
"You will remain here," Talzin said, as if explaining a natural consequence rather than issuing a command.
The restraint guided Tein to the exact center of the chamber. The stone beneath his boots warmed faintly, responding to his mass, his alignment, his presence. The ichor receded just enough for him to stand unaided.
Not free.
Permitted.
"This is not punishment," Talzin continued. "Nor is it hospitality."
Her gaze held his.
"It is caution."
She gestured—not toward him, but toward the chamber itself.
"The land recognizes you," she said. "We do not."
Then she turned and left.
The chamber sealed behind her with a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the floor and up Tein's legs, as though the stone itself were settling into place.
Only then did the ambient light begin to thin.
Not darkness—never darkness.
A gradual withdrawal until the chamber settled into a muted, blood-red gloom. The fungal growth embedded high in the walls pulsed faintly, casting slow-moving shadows that never fully aligned with the stone that should have cast them.
Only then did the quiet settle deeply enough for the waiting to begin.
⸻
Time did not pass here the way it did elsewhere.
There was no true night, only long intervals where the light thinned and thickened again. The sigils woven into the stone responded continuously, recalibrating rather than changing—measuring breath, pulse, awareness.
Containment that listened.
Tein tested nothing for a long while.
He stood where they had placed him and let his breathing slow until it matched the chamber's rhythm rather than resisting it. When his pulse steadied, the stone beneath his feet warmed by a fraction, acknowledging equilibrium rather than encouraging it.
Only then did he begin to watch.
Nightsisters moved through adjacent corridors without announcement. Their presence brushed the edges of his awareness like weather across a horizon—sometimes close, sometimes distant, always deliberate. Others entered briefly—never alone—adjusting sigil-stones set flush into the walls, refreshing ichor lines that crept and sealed like living mortar.
They did not speak to him.
They spoke around him.
What they worked here was not ritual.
It was maintenance.
An institution tending structures meant to endure.
Talzin appeared twice during the first cycle.
She did not enter the chamber.
She stood beyond its threshold, posture unguarded, gaze analytical.
"You are still listening," she observed the first time.
Tein did not answer.
Talzin smiled faintly.
"Good," she said. "Those who speak too soon never hear what matters."
She left.
The second time, she brought senior witches with her—older, their presence denser, steadier, magick less volatile but deeply rooted. Their discussion unfolded in low tones, but Tein felt its shape regardless.
Assessment.
Deliberation.
Consent.
Talzin did not dominate the exchange.
She concluded it.
By the end of the second cycle, Tein understood something essential.
Talzin did not rule Dathomir by fear.
She ruled it by alignment.
That kind of authority did not need enforcement.
It required patience.
Tein meditated when alone—not formally, not ritualized. He folded inward the way he always had on extended observation missions, awareness spread thin and wide at once.
He cataloged the chamber's responses.
The sigils reacted more strongly to intention than motion.
The restraints tightened when escape entered his thoughts, weakened when his mind stilled.
The stone warmed slightly when his focus sharpened—not aid, but recognition.
Dathomir was not helping him.
But it was not resisting him either.
That unsettled him more than hostility would have.
Between meditations, his awareness drifted—carefully—toward another presence deeper within the complex.
The boy.
El-Je's fear was changing.
Not fading.
Transforming.
By the second cycle, anticipation had begun to replace panic. The routines were deliberate. Exposure paced. Resistance eroded through normalization rather than pain.
They were not breaking him.
They were preparing him.
That decided Tein.
By the third cycle, the restraint around his legs loosened fractionally—not enough to matter, but enough to acknowledge change.
Talzin noticed.
She returned alone.
"You have decided something," she said.
Tein met her gaze evenly.
"You were always going to force that choice."
She inclined her head.
"Yes," she said. "But when you chose mattered."
She studied him once more, then left.
The chamber sealed.
The sigils settled.
And Tein returned to stillness—his strength gathering inward, pressure accumulating beneath stone.
He did not plan where the land could hear him.
He did not imagine escape.
He simply waited.
And listened for the moment Dathomir would stop watching—
—and begin remembering.