The only good thing about being devoured by a sentient whirlwind is that you’re unconscious for most of it.

Normally, Daphne would be annoyed by this loss of awareness. She was an author, damn it. She was supposed to face the world with eyes wide open, take in all her experiences, and turn them into literature.

But when she felt her consciousness slipping away only a few seconds into her involuntary whirlwind-journey, all she could think was, Oh thank EVERY GOD.

Back when she was writing the Wordmaster series, she had somehow managed to avoid describing what it felt like to be carried by a Devouring Wind. Her main character, Amelia, was too quick and too strong to be caught like that. So Daphne had blithely sent numerous side characters into the whirlwinds’ grasp, sidestepping any need to face the true horror of the monster she had created.

Maybe it was only fair that she be forced to face it now. And not even through the safe lens of a main character’s point of view, but up close and very, very personal.

Yup. Once again, Daphne found herself deeply grateful for unconsciousness.

Waking up in a dungeon cell did not lessen the appeal.

She sat up groggily, blinking to help her eyes adjust to the dim light. The cell was surprisingly large for a single occupant. It looked about the same size as the Chamber of Triunity, but without the shelves full of scrolls, and without a channel of glowing Eloquent Water running through the floor. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all the same rough, unadorned stone. The only light came through the open doorway…

Daphne blinked again. She took a second look. No mistake here — the opening was narrow, but it was definitely a doorway.

Except there was no door. She was in a prison without bars, or gates, or anything to keep her from leaving the prison.

Scrambling to her feet, Daphne hurled herself at the opening, only to be knocked backwards by an invisible barrier.

Of course, she thought. Of course there would be word-shields instead of doors. This is the Wordmaster’s dungeon, after all.

She wasn’t sure how she knew it, but she did. There was no doubt in her mind that the vision of her home-library back in the Chamber of Triunity had been some sort of trap. Somehow, using the Prism to enter the room had sprung the trap, unleashing a Devouring Wind designed specifically to get through any barrier and bring the victim straight back to the big bad evil guy’s fortress.

Story-wise, this made perfect sense.

Reality-wise, it sucked. A lot.

Daphne got to her feet again, more slowly this time, rubbing her bruised elbow and staring at the opening. The shield was not clear, as she had originally thought. The other side was dark, like the shield was opaque and masking whatever lay beyond it.

There had to be a way through. She just had to find the right entrance words.

What kind of password would an insane megalomaniac like the Wordmaster come up with? ‘I’m so cool?’ or ‘More power, please?’ or maybe ‘Let’s see how I can make everyone’s life a little bit worse today?’

The Prism buzzed into life in her hand. She could almost imagine the pen was speaking, each word vibrating around her head like her skull had turned into a beehive.

“You do not need wordssss. Jusssssst me.”

“Nice try,” Daphne said out loud.

The Prism buzzed again. **It was getting uncomfortably warm against her fingertips. “I can open all doorsssss.”

“And trigger all trapssss,” Daphne shot back.

Then she sighed. She was aware that she was being a little judgmental, not to mention rude. This was just a pen, after all, and her favorite pen at that. It had been an incredible help to her in both worlds. Sure, Runar had expressed some doubts, but where would any of them have been without the Prism’s turboboost to Daphne’s Wordsmithery? She’d never have managed to take down that first Rabid Daydream, let alone the Windling or anything else.

Still, after the way it had interacted with the Wordmaster’s trap in the Under Library, she thought it only reasonable to be a little suspicious about the Prism.

“I’m sorry,” she said, giving the now super-warm pen a tentative squeeze. “It’s probably not your fault. At least, I think so. Not sure, honestly. But I’ve gotta be a little cautious. Getting an involuntary ride on the Whirlwind Express will do that to a girl.”

The pen buzzed angrily, but she ignored it and put it in her pocket.

“So.” Both hands now free, Daphne faced the opening again. “No shortcuts. No way to guess the entrance words either.”

Talking out loud was strangely comforting, so she kept doing it, stepping closer to examine the opening.

“I wish Runar were here. He’d get in touch with some ancient lore principle, like a master-key entrance word that overrides all word shields. Or Bjarni. Bjarni could probably get through on sheer willpower. He’d burst through like a living fireball.”

Living fireball…

Her own words echoed in her thoughts, stirring some very recent memories. She looked down at her hands.

“We have the fire in ourselves.” Her voice was soft and sounded faraway, like she was pulling the words across miles of space and time. “Right, Bjarni?”

She stepped right up to the narrow opening.

“Let’s give this another try,” Daphne said more loudly, trying to infuse her own voice with some of Bjarni’s fiery energy. “Loresmith style.” Then she placed her hands against the barrier and recited:

“Though it be lonely Following the ancient ways Watch for the Lore-light.”

Light pooled around her fingertips, spreading across the invisible surface in a glowing wave. It covered the whole opening rapidly. For three beautiful seconds, the narrow opening was a wall of warm, golden light.

Then the light vanished, taking the shield with it. There was no POP, or deafening alarm, or violent explosion. The shield was just gone.

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“A bit anticlimactic,” Daphne said, surprising herself with a shaky laugh. “But I won’t complain.”

She stepped through the opening and found herself in a large cavern. All around the walls, she saw narrow openings, leading to other cells like her own. A hallway cut through the chamber, passing through larger archways on the left and right. Along this hallway, a channel was cut into the rocky floor, giving off a sickly light that was unpleasantly familiar.

Keeping all her senses on high alert, Daphne inched towards the channel for a closer inspection. She couldn’t get any nearer than a foot before she backed up in revulsion. This wasn’t Eloquent Water. It wasn’t water at all. Flowing through the channel was the same oily, noxious substance that Mud Man the Wordmage had used in his thought-scrambling chains. It oozed through the cavern, emanating a faint glow that felt vaguely threatening, like the tricksy lantern of a deep sea fish-monster.

Of course, Daphne thought again. It’s the only light in this whole place, and it’s gross.

So far, the Wordmaster’s branding was on point.

Daphne gazed around the cavern. It wasn’t just the nasty, oily non-light that was familiar. The entire setup was making her think of another, much nicer place. Somewhere she’d been very recently…

It hit her like a gut-punch, and she gave a very Gjurdok-like snort.

“That lazy bastard,” she muttered. “Couldn’t even be bothered to design his own dungeons. He just copied the Under Library. Big caverns, lit by a channel of magic liquid, with smaller rooms on every side. But instead of rooms filled with books and scrolls and beautiful words, these are cells filled with prisoners.”

Prisoners.

Her heart lurched up to her throat, and she ran to the nearest opening. There, inside a room nearly identical to the one she had escaped, was a griffin. He looked like an older version of Runar — golden, noble, and so majestic that Daphne’s eyes filled with starstruck tears. The griffin was sitting, bolt upright, its wings folded rigidly against its back. A visible whirlpool of swirling wind like a miniature tornado surrounded his whole body, spiraling up and vanishing through a small hole in the ceiling.

The griffin’s eyes were wide open. They stared towards the opening of the cell without seeing it, their gaze full of so much pain that Daphne felt her heart crack.

“The Wordmaster is draining them,” she whispered. “Draining all their thoughts and stories. Gobbling up all the word-power for himself.”

By all the muses, who would come up with something so twisted?

I would, Daphne thought grimly. But now, at least, I’m here. I can do something about it.

She held up her hands against the invisible barrier and opened her mouth to recite the entrance words.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice had come from behind her. She whirled around.

Amelia was standing there, arms crossed, glaring at Daphne.

When writing Amelia’s story, Daphne had been careful not to give any detailed physical descriptions of her main character. She wanted Amelia to be a blank canvas of sorts, so every reader could identify with this woman and imagine themselves in her shoes.

But she knew this woman standing in front of her was Amelia.

Probably because it felt like looking in a mirror.

“What are you doing here?” Amelia repeated, regarding Daphne with a strange mixture of recognition and surprise.

“You know who I am?” Daphne asked.

“Of course. The Wordmaster told me all about you.” Amelia uncrossed her arms and used her fingers to make elaborate air-quotes. “You’re ‘the AUTHOR.’”

“The Wordmaster knows who I am?”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “No, the most powerful being in Euloban has no idea who Euloban selected to be its chronicler.”

“I don’t remember you being so sarcastic.” Daphne wasn’t sure how she was staying this calm, but decided to ride the keep-your-cool wave as long as it lasted. She crossed her arms and leveled her own glare. “That’s not how I wrote you.”

“You missed a lot of things when it came to me,” Amelia said.

“I’ll say. Like your fashion choices, for instance.” Daphne cast a disdainful eye over her main character’s mud-colored tunic. “What in the name of every god are you wearing?”

“These are the robes of a Wordmage,” Amelia replied indignantly. “A blend of three colors, representing the combined powers of all three classes in one mighty warrior.”

Daphne wrinkled her nose. “It looks like a tie-dye job gone wrong. No one looks good in muddy dirt-colors.”

“You’re one to talk,” Amelia hissed. “A red jacket, with red hair? You clash horribly.”

“Better than looking like I lost a fight with a mud-monster.”

“Enough!” Amelia inhaled and exhaled sharply through her nostrils. “Answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“Why don’t you tell me? I didn’t choose to come here. I was brought against my will.”

Amelia’s eyes widened. “You — you were brought by a Devouring Wind?”

Daphne smirked. “I take it ‘the most powerful being in Euloban’ didn’t tell you about the trap he set in the Under Library?”

“No. I mean, yes, he did, but —” Amelia looked left and right as if scanning for signs of damage in the cavern. “Weren’t you dropped right into a cell? How did you escape?”

“That’s for me to know and you to agonize over,” Daphne said. “So, what are you doing here, if not responding to some alarm or sensor I apparently didn’t trip?”

“I come here every day.” Amelia pointed at the cell behind Daphne. “I come to visit Hyddrun.”

Daphne’s knees buckled. She tried to cover by turning and leaning hard on the wall beside the cell’s opening.

“I thought Hyddrun was dead,” she said, keeping her voice steady with great effort. “I thought you betrayed him, and he was slain.”

“I betrayed no one.” Amelia’s voice was brittle. “I did what was necessary for the good of Euloban, exactly as Hyddrun had always taught me. Exactly as he would wish. And no one was slain.” Amelia made a sweeping gesture, indicating the cavern full of cells. “To destroy so much word-power would be a horrible waste. We are keeping them all here, preserving them until the cleansing work is done. Then, when the world is whole again, they will see. They will rejoice. They will thank us for saving Euloban.”

Daphne dug her fingernails into the stone wall to keep her hands from shaking. “I doubt anyone will be feeling particularly grateful. Least of all Hyddrun… or his family.”

“Why should I listen to you?” Amelia gave a mirthless laugh. “The Wordmaster told me you didn’t even know Hyddrun had a family. In your version, he was a grieving, childless widower. His wife is very much alive. Would you like to meet her? She’s in the cell next door. I made sure to keep them close. I know my bond-friend better than you.”

Daphne tore her eyes away from Hyddrun and looked at Amelia.

“Is that why you visit every day?” she asked. “To make yourself feel better? To convince yourself that you’ve done the right thing, imprisoning and torturing your bond-friend?”

“I am not the one who chronicled a world and then abandoned it,” Amelia said coolly. “I do not need to explain myself to you.”

“No, I think you kinda do,” Daphne shot back. “You were designed to be a shining light in this world. No one appreciated the true power of Euloban more than you. You were supposed to breathe life into the three-class system, not destroy it.”

“The three-class system?” Amelia gave another humorless laugh. It was really starting to get on Daphne’s already frayed nerves. “Your story glorified the most broken part of Euloban. Such division, and the need for interdependence it creates — that’s the real sickness in this world. In your version, Euloban is basically a codependent narcissistic jackass. Reminds me of my first boyfriend.”

Daphne blinked. “You never had a boyfriend. You were an awkward nerdy hide-in-the-library bookworm, like me.”

“The depth of your ignorance astounds me.” Apparently, Amelia had fully recovered from her initial shock at discovering a free Daphne wandering about the dungeons. She crossed her arms and glared. “And speaking of boyfriends, I note you haven’t asked about yours. I guess you aren’t as concerned for his welfare as the Wordmaster assumed.”

Panic flared in Daphne’s heart, making her voice come out in a squeak. “Mark? Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“Nothing worse than being in a relationship with you would have already done,” Amelia said. “In fact, he might find his current circumstances an improvement.”

She pointed to a cell two doors down from Hyddrun’s. Daphne’s feet were moving before her brain was aware, a scream ripping from her raw vocal cords.

“Mark!”

She caught just a glimpse of him through the narrow opening before a burning pain exploded around her ankles, tripping her and scattering her thoughts. Sprawled on the floor, Daphne twisted around in agony to see what had attacked her.

The Wordmage who had attacked Runar, Mud Man himself, was standing there beside Amelia. He was pulling back his disgusting mind-chaos rope neatly at his waist.

“No time for a touching reunion, I’m afraid.” His smirk was creepily identical to Amelia’s. Daphne found this nearly as disturbing as the puke-dirt color of their clothes. “The Wordmaster is aware of your arrival. He sent me to escort you.”

The two Wordmages hauled Daphne roughly up between them.

“Come, author,” Amelia said as they began half-supporting, half-dragging Daphne across the cavern. “Your villain wants to give you a proper welcome.”