The forest melted into oblivion.
One moment, Yvonne was standing in the endless dark, the mage watching her from the shadows. The next, the world shifted, twisting and reforming itself into something new. Something that gave the impression of a constructed display.
She was in the castle. Her father's castle. The grand hall, with its high ceilings and cold stone walls. The fire crackled in the hearth. The candles flickered on the long table. And at the head of the table, her father sat, his gray eyes fixed on her. It was almost as if she had just woken up from a very long dream.
"Yvonne," Arne said. "Come. Sit. We need to talk."
Yvonne took a step back. Her hand went to her knife.
She wasn't armed. Her knife was gone. Her weapons were gone.
"You're not real," she said. "You're just a vision. You cannot be real... You're just in my head" She looked around in utter confusion.
Arne smiled—cold, patient, familiar. "What nonsense are you spitting?. Get over here and sit."
