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 not existed a breath 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 resistance became effort and motion became compliance. Forward was easier than stillness. To fight would have meant fighting gravity rather than restraint.
The corridor opened as they advanced.
Walls slid aside along organic seams, stone flexing rather than separating, producing low, resonant sounds that vibrated through Tein's bones. The passage was ancient—not carved for symmetry or reverence, but worn into shape through repetition. Long abrasions scored the walls where staffs and bodies had brushed past for generations. Mineral deposits streaked the stone like old scars, dulling the ambient red light instead of reflecting it.
The ceiling pressed low, forcing compression—then rose abruptly into a vaulted span riddled with fissures and hanging growth. Translucent fungal masses clung overhead, veined and faintly luminous, their glow dimming by fractions as Tein passed beneath them, as though conserving attention.
Witches flanked him.
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 magick braided between them continuously, a living lattice reinforcing 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 settled something unseen, as though space itself aligned around her presence. The air ahead of her felt thinner, more cooperative; 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 its response.
The ichor adjusted instantly.
Not constricting.
Correcting.
Pressure redistributed along his legs, neutralizing leverage before it could form. No punishment. No warning.
Only recalibration.
He released the effort and allowed himself to be carried deeper.
The air changed as they descended.
Heat rose by slow degrees, 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. 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 so completely 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 walls still leaned inward around old failures. Others felt stretched, 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 toward a domed ceiling whose apex vanished 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 subtle wear from constant use—contact points smoothed by familiarity. 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.
For a single heartbeat, the Force shifted.
Not alarm.
Not anger.
Awareness.
And somewhere deeper—sealed away and silent—something else noticed the subtraction and chose not to react.
The sigils in the walls recalibrated minutely, adjusting for the missing variable.
The Nightsister who took the saber 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.
They looked at Talzin.
"You will remain here," Talzin said, as if explaining consequence rather than issuing command.
The restraint guided Tein to the chamber's exact center. The stone beneath his boots warmed faintly, responding to mass and alignment. 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.
"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 traveled through the floor and up Tein's legs, as though the stone itself were settling into a decision.
Only then did the ambient light thin.
Not darkness—never darkness.
A gradual withdrawal until the chamber settled into muted, blood-red gloom. Embedded fungal growth pulsed faintly, casting slow shadows that never fully aligned with the stone that should have cast them.
Only then did the quiet settle deeply enough for waiting to begin.
⸻
Time did not pass here as it did elsewhere.
There was no true night—only long intervals where light thinned and thickened again. The sigils woven into the stone recalibrated continuously, measuring breath, pulse, awareness.
Containment that listened.
Tein tested nothing for a long while.
He stood where they had placed him and slowed his breathing until it matched the chamber's rhythm. When his pulse steadied, the stone warmed by a fraction—not encouragement, not aid.
Recognition.
Only then did he begin to watch.
Nightsisters moved through adjacent corridors without announcement. Their presence brushed the edges of his awareness like weather along a distant horizon—sometimes near, sometimes far, always deliberate. Others entered briefly—never alone—to adjust sigil-stones set flush into the walls, refreshing ichor lines that sealed like living mortar.
They did not speak to him.
They spoke around him.
What they worked here was not ritual.
It was maintenance.
Talzin appeared once during the first cycle.
She did not enter.
She stood beyond the threshold, posture unguarded, gaze analytical.
"You are still listening," she observed.
Tein did not answer.
Talzin smiled faintly.
"Good," she said. "Those who speak too soon never hear what matters."
She left.
Her second appearance came later—and it was different.
She brought senior witches with her—older, their presence denser, steadier, magick less volatile but deeply rooted. Their exchange unfolded in low tones, but Tein felt its shape regardless.
Assessment.
Deliberation.
Consent.
Talzin did not dominate the discussion.
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 ritually. 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.
Restraint tightened when escape entered his thoughts, weakened when his mind stilled.
The stone warmed slightly when his focus sharpened—not assistance.
Recognition again.
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. Exposure was 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—not as surrender, but as pressure gathering beneath stone.
He did not plan where the land could hear him.
He did not imagine escape.
He chose patience the way others chose weapons.
And he listened for the moment Dathomir would stop watching—
—and begin remembering.