Every cell in his body urges caution. He is the sort of creature that breaks things, and this woman does not seem like one who needs to be broken. It seems wrong, for the two of them to be in the same room. And yet fate would have deemed it so, scheming to put him in a position like this. He keeps his distance, noticing her mannerisms. He does not speak the language she does. What she had said may very well be a curse.

Yet, from her posture, he does not think it so.

"Do you know where we are?" He had gone into a cave for warmth against a winter wind. He does not know how he stands here now. His posture remains stiff, unnaturally still, as he occasionally glances about the unusually warm chamber they're in.

Is this the work of daemons?