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For the first few days, Gwenllian thought she would die there.

“Murderer! Be still,” that half-hearted Magician said. Her arms were behind her back, tied, and as she slithered and kicked sharply. “No more than him, no more than you!” she sang.

Her voice was rough. No more pretty voice that had entertained guests at feasts and spun tales of past heroes. No more pretty lies.

When the stone closed over her, she was not asleep. The floor against her head in the struggle had only caused a brief unconsciousness.

She screamed and shouted and cursed them fairly. It seemed impossible that no one heard – it seemed instead like no one listened. And she stopped thinking she would die there, and with dread became sure she wouldn’t.

...

The caverns were always cold, and she didn’t shiver.

She saw things that weren’t there, in the darkness. A mind facing nothing creates something. But then she remembered how to see things that were there, or at least somewhere. Though still not in front of her eyes. Remembering the world, and remembering herself who was kept away from it, she buried her fear. Fury filled the cavern left.

...

When the stone fell away, she twisted up towards the light. It hurt her eyes and she refused to blink. There was not much time, and she had never been so happy for the lack of it.