The door did not open so much as it questioned her.
As Lela approached, the obsidian surface shimmered with molten lines that twisted into a single question:
"Do you seek the truth, or the answer?"
She paused, one hand on her sword hilt, the other outstretched toward the runes.
"I thought those were the same," she murmured.
The door pulsed once.
"Only to the uninitiated."
And then it split, revealing not a hallway or a path—but a mirror.
Lela's reflection stepped forward and held her gaze. Its armor was identical. Its eyes were hers. But the reflection smiled first—and it was not kind.
Then the mirror shattered, and the door pulled her through.
—
She emerged into a forest of blackened trees, their branches twisted like the script of a forgotten prophecy. The air smelled of thunder and cedar. Runes floated like fireflies, flickering in and out of legibility.
Lela placed a hand on her blade, but did not draw it. The world around her did not feel hostile.
It felt… curious.
Above her, stars blinked in deliberate patterns—constellations shifting positions mid-gaze. Beneath her feet, the ground hummed with riddles she couldn't yet hear. She walked slowly, and with every step, questions emerged from the air like fog.
"What is the shape of a memory you never made?"
"Can a lie become truer if told in kindness?"
"What do you become when your purpose is fulfilled?"
Lela muttered, "This place is going to be insufferable."
But she kept walking.
The path—if it could be called that—led to a clearing, where a massive stone cube floated three feet above the ground. Every surface of the cube writhed with glowing script, constantly rewriting itself in recursive loops. Symbols Lela didn't recognize—and some she did. Symbols from her world. The blade sigil of the Moon War. The spiral of the Blood Oath. Even her own name, etched in looping calligraphy across the base.
There was someone waiting for her.
A child. Or perhaps something that merely looked like a child. They sat cross-legged on a platform of obsidian petals, their eyes glowing with pale blue fire.
"Welcome," the child said.
Lela approached warily. "Where am I?"
"In a question," they replied. "One you chose."
"You're the Riddlekeeper, I assume?"
The child tilted their head. "I am a Riddle. And a Keeper. But not the."
Lela exhaled through her nose. "This place is maddening."
"Only if you mistake questions for traps," the Riddlekeeper said. "Here, they are keys."
"Keys to what?"
"To yourself."
The cube behind them rotated, revealing a new surface—a single riddle carved in gold:
"You were forged for war. But what are you in peace?"
Lela froze.
The words struck something deep, like a hammer on an old scar. Her blade hand twitched.
"I don't know," she whispered.
The cube pulsed with approval.
"Good," the child said. "Ignorance is fertile soil."
"I'm not here to be psychoanalyzed by mystic toddlers," Lela snapped. "There were doors. There were choices. I chose this one. There must be a reason."
"There is," the Riddlekeeper said. "You came looking for something that cannot be given to you by force. Not by sword, nor will, nor sacrifice. You came looking for the one thing your blade cannot carve."
Lela frowned. "What's that?"
The cube turned again.
This time, the riddle read:
"A name given by no one else."
She turned back to the child. "I have a name."
"You have a title," the child corrected. "Lela the Woundbearer. Lela of the Blood Script. Lela Who Survived. But who is Lela without a war to survive?"
Lela said nothing.
The child stood. Their glow intensified, casting strange shadows that didn't align with the light.
"You see, this place," they said, gesturing around the forest, "is built of abandoned questions. Paths not taken. Choices never voiced. It calls to those who mistake certainty for strength."
Lela drew her blade.
Not out of threat.
But out of habit.
It hummed with remembered power. She'd carved kingdoms into submission with this blade. She'd bled gods. She had survived.
But here?
The sword felt… quiet. Not inert, but waiting.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
"Nothing," said the Riddlekeeper. "But the door wants something for you."
The cube rotated again. A third riddle.
"What does a weapon become, when it learns it is not one?"
The sword in her hand glowed briefly—then split down the center. Not shattering. Unfolding.
Lela gasped and dropped it. The blade unraveled into threads of light, which lifted into the air like strands of thought. Each one inscribed with a memory:
Her first duel.
The moment she took her Blood Oath.
The night she broke it.
The morning she forgave herself.
And a final one—still unwritten.
The threads spiraled around her, weaving themselves into a cloak.
And when they settled, the sword was gone.
Lela looked down at her empty hands.
She did not feel diminished.
She felt unburdened.
The child smiled. "Now you're ready to answer."
The cube spun one last time.
The riddle was gone.
In its place, a single sentence:
"I am Lela, and I am becoming."
Lela stepped forward. She touched the words—and they absorbed into her skin.
The forest began to shift. Trees stood straighter. The stars realigned into patterns that made sense only to her. Runes crystallized and formed a trail leading forward.
The Riddlekeeper bowed.
"You are not done," they said. "But you are changed."
"And the blade?"
"It is not gone. It is evolved. You will know it when you need it."
Lela took a deep breath. She had spent a life being sharp and certain.
But now?
She felt open.
And curious.
"Thank you," she said, and turned toward the path.
Behind her, the cube spun endlessly.
The Door of Riddles pulsed once—then grew still.
Awaiting the next question.