Many minutes passed before her master’s rhythmic breathing reached her ears. The sound, a pleasant deep rumble, a soft almost nuance-snore. She curled up on her side, listening to his cadence. The alien nightlight flickered about her, peppering her auditory faculties with unease. Crickets chirped, a hollow sound, ending moments too early, almost impossible to distinguish, but she could. The grass whispered in sighs as animals slithered or padded. She latched onto his snores, focusing on them, hoping to wash away her disquiet.

While listening, she thought back over their conversation they had. Some of the things said she agreed with. At one point, she felt a rush of affection for him. She tried to imagine what it was like for his children growing up, how they managed to live with a father hailed both hero and scapegoat, war veteran and warlock. At times, she peered past the armor he built up around him, the facade of a mentor, teacher, and saw the man beneath, his soul naked and bare. In those moments, she almost wished she had someone like him to call father, a part of a family. She had a father and mother, but she couldn’t remember them. For a moment, she wondered what they must be going through, not knowing what happened to her, where she’d gone. She made a mental note to ask Judas later.

She tilted her head to regard him, smiling as he dozed. He would’ve been a great father to have. But a part of her also couldn’t identify with the sentiment, having been his apprentice. She glimpsed a side of him his children never did. Sighing, she let those speculations slip from her grasp and returned to the conversation they had.

It was nice to hear him talk about long-term plans and ideas. He genuinely cared for the people of the realm, and the council filled with a bunch of idiots. The people’s prosperity was foremost on his mind. His affection meant a lot to her, showing he had—or would—put a lot of thought into her future with him and beyond. He would help her achieve her highest potential. And for a moment, all her anger and resentment she had been building towards him as they entered the Corridor seemed so trivial.

Don’t ever forget what he is like! the voice sneered.

Was that her inner voice telling her never forget his sidestepping or his abandonment? Perhaps her worst fears awoke to remind her? At this point, she wondered what her worst fear would be. Fail so utterly that Judas would abandon her? That she would never be able to help him fight against Xilor should he ever rise again? Then she remembered the nameless young man in Dlad City. What if Judas had found her with him?

Mortification lanced her.

What if he’d walked in on them in various stages of undress? What if he discovered them while having sex? Her chest burned with embarrassment, and the humiliation only distressed her further. But beneath her initial reaction, a blasé defense flared to life.

What does it matter what I choose to do with my body and with whom? It’s none of his business!

She tried to push such embarrassing reflections aside, instead focusing solely on the young man in Dlad City. Much to her chagrin, she couldn’t recall his face, which escalated the sense of shame—a victim of the seducing lust with the inability to recall her intended.

It’s not my fault! she reminded herself, seemingly better. Why am I so defensive?

Both Meristal and the author of the book’s passage told her the fault didn’t lay entirely with her. Still, she couldn’t help the reaction of being abnormal, defective.

What if the defect spilled over into my ability not to use magic?

She chased those wayward thoughts until late in the night and discovered another truth. When she had asked Judas what happened between him and the council, what caused the animosity, he answered with a long-winded explanation about the origin of the council and the Wizard’s War. Never once did he broach what caused the breach between them. Realizing this only furthered the hardening of her soul against him.

Damn it! He did it again!

He still held his secrets close. Maybe he had the right considering everything that happened to him, and it did nothing but disillusion her, marring their relationship as hollow and jaded.

Still, she found comfort listening to his measured breathing. Only when she stilled her mind and returned to listening to his rhythmic breathing did she surrender to sleep.

Julie woke up unexpectedly to the quiet echoes of early-morning life in the Corridor. The sounds bathed her with an eerie impression. There was something strange about them, not quite right, forced and unreal. She listened harder, deeper. The chirping of a cricket didn’t seem the same, but at first, she couldn’t think why or how. The flat tone and odd timing pulsed out toward her.

In the pause between drawn out chirps, an owl hooted in the distance, and that, too, sounded different, hollow. It didn’t carry the same resonance it customarily did. Peering out into the expanse, she failed to spot the animal in question, but in the stygian atmosphere, she didn’t see anything past a few feet. Only in the distance did she see a faint ribbon of crimson, heralding the coming dawn.

“Good morning! You’re finally awake,” Judas said in a cheerful voice, almost in a sing-song. He squatted near the fire. The steady beat of forced sound from the early morning life throbbed painfully in her ears as she turned. “Breakfast?” he offered, smiling at her.

Damn, a morning person. Just perfect!

She couldn’t stand someone bubbly and cheerful in the early morning. “Sure,” she mumbled as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes—eyes that were still fighting to remain closed for a few hours more. She wished she hadn’t stayed up so late.

Rolling out of her sleeping pallet, she hobbled closer to his small fire where he squatted, stirring something lumpy and flecked in a black pot.

“What is it?” she questioned with mild disgust.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Probably best if you don’t know. Just eat, it won’t kill you,” he promised, and then he handed her a cup. “I made a hot drink for you, too.”

They didn’t have bowls, so they both ate from the community pot. Julie tried to the best of her ability to choke down the mysterious creamy substance he prepared. She was grateful until her first spoonful, finding the texture akin to snot dripping down the back of her throat. Something hard and squishy caught in her teeth, and she set her spoon down to take a sip of the drink instead. The hot, dark, and bitter substance slid down her throat, triggering a vague familiarity about it. Its aroma warmed her, inviting repressed memories to return. She didn’t bother to inquire about the liquid, a far better alternative than the mystery slop she forced down. Besides, the drink kept the morning chill at bay and helped her wake up.

“Why’s the Corridor what it is?” she asked, holding the warm mug in her hands.

“What do you mean?”

“What makes it do things the way it does?”

“I think I know what you are getting at. You want an explanation as to why the Corridor is here, why it works?” Julie nodded, remaining mute, as he continued without pause. “No one truly knows how it operates, why it’s here, the way it influences the people who enter. There is, of course, lots of supposition, but nothing acknowledged as certain. Anything I tell you is based on speculation by the best minds and through my personal experiences and beliefs.

“It was, in theory, created during the time of Hagen, the Father of Magic. An interesting notion, to be sure, but lacks empirical evidence. But it did give rise to the speculation this strip of land is a result of all the sudden infusion of energy during his time and formed from a cesspool of excess—two opposites surviving synchronously, creating and destroying at the same moment, surviving in a constant state of flux. It’s both stable and unstable but can never be one or the other. Do you understand?” He paused, and Julie’s face fell into a blank expression. When she didn’t reply immediately, he continued.

“There are other theories; for example, that Hagen himself created this place. In my opinion, I don’t think so. It’d give him too much credit where none is due. Yes, he’s the Father of Magic, and he did introduce a lot into the world, but he wasn’t a god. Not to toot my horn, but I’ve bested Xilor, the strongest known magical wielder of our time, and even I couldn’t create the Corridor—or anything similar. I wouldn’t know how. I think, in my limited view, its creation came about through the Lord of the Underworld.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have you ever heard of the Shades?” he asked, and then answered for her. “No, of course, you haven’t. What was I thinking? A Shade is a side of us, a part of what makes us wizardkind. You have emotions, your physical presence, and your mental faculties. Those three things—emotionality, physicality, and mentality—make up the Shades; one Shade per essence, if you will. I think the Corridor of Cruelty is formed through Shades or at least, operating through them.” He fell silent as he began eating again. After a few bites, he washed it down with the hot, dark, bitter liquid and moved to eat again when Julie interrupted him.

“Well?” Julie inquired impatiently. “Go on!”

“What are you talking about? That’s my theory.” He shoveled more food into his mouth.

“What is a Shade? What does it mean to me?”

“I just told you what a Shade is. What it means to you is inconsequential. It is what it is, and nothing will change that. If I were to sit with you and explain every detail of a Shade or the essence of the Underworld, it wouldn’t make a hill-of-beans difference here. Nothing will change it, so don’t worry.”

“I’d still like to know, for personal knowledge, what the Shades are,” she said, changing her tactics, allowing her voice to go soft and almost pleading.

Judas gave a loud sigh and put less food in his mouth so he could talk and eat simultaneously. “The Shades are a myth. No, not a myth, a poor choice of words.” He tarried to swallow and consider his next words, and then he took another bite and tried again. “The Shades have never been proven to exist, much like no one god of any creature or race has been proven to exist. It’s not necessarily faith that makes some believe, rather a rational, critical thinking about the way magic behaves. A born necessity. How they can think this as proof is beyond me,” he said, and then defensively held his hands up to prevent any questions. “They, being the people who can rationally and critically think, believe Shades are like ghosts, neither part of this world nor part of the next. Some judge they are spirits while others think they are either servants of a god or ghouls of the Underworld. There’s no way to tell, but the most interesting thing about the idea of Shades existing is this: the Corridor works exactly like the theory of Shades, which tests you emotionally, physically, and mentally. There’s nothing else to it than that, and that—in and of itself—is the key.”

“I think,” Julie said slowly, watching him finish the pot of food, “you didn’t tell me anything just now.”

Judas was silent for a moment as he thought about her statement. He smiled. “Indeed.”

She eyed him disparagingly as he stood and stretched, rubbing his belly.

He’s keeping things from me again.

The warlock set about cleaning the pot and dowsing the fire, tidying up the site rather quickly with the aid of wizardry. He shouldered his pack eagerly, like a young sailor about to make his maiden voyage. Julie, however, barely managed to scrape herself up from the ground. Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

They wound their way along the trail for more than an hour until they came upon their first sign. Judas, without pause, continued to the right of the sign. Julie stopped to read and then looked after her master, puzzlement engraved on her face.

“Where are you going?” she called after him. He turned to look at her, and she pointed to the sign. “It says we need to go left.”

“No, it says you must go left. I go right.” He gave her a casual wave as he left her once again, for what seemed like the hundredth time since they had entered. She sighed wearily and continued along the left trail.

The rickety rut eventually led her to a narrow path along a cliff face. A tree up to her left grew out of the cliff side with its roots winding down in the rock. One root as thick as a branch jutted out over the trail, curving overhead to form what looked like a threshold. It wouldn’t have been so unusual, except that beyond the root—through the threshold—was but a shadow. Her eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness beyond. Apprehension gnawed at her insides, the tenebrous destination instigating rife trepidation within her.

“You have a big day tomorrow,” she remembered Judas saying to her the previous night. She almost trudged through before she caught sight of the writing on the root above her head. Her steps faltered, pausing to read the letters scratched in, etched by a blade and shaking hand.

Here madness dwells.

She couldn’t presume as to what kind of trick the Corridor attempted. Julie didn’t feel the eyes upon her like she had when they first entered, but she did note the absent sense of waiting or anticipation. Even the voice warning her off or laughing at her predicament fell away.

Perhaps Judas had been right, the end of the journey was imminent. But the scratched letters did little to quell her qualms, though the logic of her thoughts gave her hope. Still, she found the possibility that someone had lost their mind and etched the words into the root unnerving.

How could someone lose their mind and still have enough sanity to carve the warning?

The uneasy feeling subsided when she analyzed the events, the conclusion inevitably a paradox, a trick on her mind, like all the rest.

Assured, she entered the doorway.