You stand on one side of a vast cavern, the walls hewn and polished smooth, grey sandstone appearing to have the texture of marble. There is a ledge all around, and it is on this you stand, above the heads of those amassed in the lowermost area in the cavern floor. The ceiling is lost in dimness above you and you are aware of the entrance, gated by massive slabs of carved yew, somewhere to your right. Lighting is diffuse, with no discernible source, smoothing out any flaws in the grey stone walls. Fire torches are for effect, not required of necessity.
The floor of the cavern is laid out in exquisitely crafted grey blocks of stone, and is somewhat reminiscent of a Roman bath complex. Paving slabs slot together so finely a blade could not be inserted between them. Wide but shallow steps slope down from the entrance to the main floor. Smaller steps give access to other levels of the main floor space. The air is dry and temperate, smelling of faint spice and smoke from wood being burnt in iron basins standing on single blocks about the place.
Filling the cavern are more than a hundred people, many more, but fewer than one hundred of them remain solid and concrete in their presence when you rest your gaze upon them. The rest seem to slip and slide away from view, much as you yourself would do if one of them looked upon you. You know without being told that those who remain clear and solid can see you just as well as you can see them.
The people come in varying forms. Some have recognisable faces that are not their own. Some sit in the form of their Family. Some, perhaps those less sure of what is happening, hover indeterminately at some in-between stage, nervous of the implications of this strange gathering and the part they must play. A few cling together in pairs, as if in fear and horror, and a few sit together in the manner of those who have no need of other company. As you look you realise that there are some present with as much solidity as those you can see, hovering as shadows beside a few of the most sure of themselves, but you cannot see these other few at all. It is as if their presence is implied and that implication is as real as any actuality.
Towards the back of the cavern, on your left, on a raised area so as to be almost level with you, a woman sits on what appears to be a fantastic jewelled and decorated throne in the form of a dragon. Black scales gleam with red hues containing myriad shades of iridescence, massive wings resting almost protectively, a cloak around the woman. The great head, with obsidian eyes, hangs mere inches above the woman's head. The tail curls around the steps below the woman, but much of the rest of the beast is concealed behind the wings. The sensation of immense size is unmistakeable.
The woman herself sits straight-backed and motionless, arms on rests to either side within the dragon wings. She is pale, dressed in only a black vest and somewhat incongruous seeming yet also entirely appropriate black army trousers. There is a suggestion of boots but the feet themselves are indistinct. Like the dragon, her eyes are entirely black and her hair seems to match the colour of the dragon's scales. It is close-cropped, short. There is no emotion on her face but there is pain there, a sensation of wanting to escape. Behind the inhuman blankness in her eyes is a well of misery kept in check by something other than self-control. You find yourself looking for one of the shadows at her side but can find none. The sensation this engenders is strange, akin to seeing someone and suddenly realising he is lacking a limb.
Flickering firelight glints and catches in a single tear that rolls down her impassive face. Without warning the dragon moves, for it is no sculpture at all, and the huge head breathes soft, warm, inaudible words into the woman's hair. With wings aside it is now possible for you to see the great haunches and the paler belly, and also that the woman is bound to the stool on which she sits by what appear to be living serpents coiling about her wrists and the armrests. She does not move because she cannot.
Sixteen of the concrete people watch her, almost forming an arc in the assembly. A change occurs in the atmosphere, an increase in attentiveness, and one of the sixteen speaks.
"I would reiterate the challenge and note that it has been proven." His voice is quiet and it does not carry, but everyone hears it. He is fairly tall, a man wearing his own face. One hand rests on the head of a maneless male lion and there is a shadow behind his shoulder. There seems to be no need for further explanation. Another tear falls down the captive woman's face. She now appears to be trembling. "Do you withdraw your stand?"
There is a long pause, and finally the woman shakes her head with infinite sadness, as if she cannot trust herself to speak.
"Of course not," says one of the other concrete people, not one of the sixteen, with a certain degree of exasperation. "It is a Core, a Jehelezhad. It is not going to withdraw."
"You wish this to go to conclusion? As she is?" The one who had commented withdraws from the flashing eyes of the first speaker.
"It is the way of things", he murmurs, and that murmur produces a scattering of echoes from the assembly.
"Things are changing." He does not gesture towards the dragon, there is no need for overt gesture in this gathering.
"That is as may be," says another, a woman this time, also not of the sixteen. "But this one's failure is affecting us all. We cannot carry her."
A great bull of a man rounds on the woman. "You are not carrying her and the failure is not hers."
"If Key fails then Core fails by default. You know this."
"She has not failed yet. She is adjusting."
If the captive woman is affected by being discussed in this way she does not show it. She appears to be past caring about the present. The same cannot be said of the dragon, which unfolds itself slowly and stares at the assembly.
"If I may speak." Its voice is the sound of pressurised, heated rock.
"Of course." Permission is given by the one who had first spoken.
"Erikh is correct. She adjusts. We both do, and there are as yet possibilities to explore. Even as she is there is no guarantee that your conclusion would be the one that the majority of you seek. She is past the point of personal involvement in survival and this, which makes you want to end the incumbency, means also that she is harder to meet."
The woman that had called for conclusion snorts. "She is controlled. What can she do against him?"
Sixteen pairs of eyes turn feral.
"Whose is this?" one asks, pinning the woman with a stare.
"Mine." The voice is cold, harsh, without emotion. "All mine." A female figure becomes thick shadow, thick shadow concealing legs. The shadow descends upon the unfortunate and all eyes turn away, save for those of the captive woman, who cannot move.
"There will be no conclusion that way. We do not murder our own and she has not yet reached the stage where she may ask for an ending." It is the first speaker again, and he is addressing you the insubstantial ones, who may not entirely understand.
"What do you recommend as Balichor?" Now he addresses the dragon.
"Time. A commodity you do not understand entirely, I know, but she is no longer entirely one of you and you must make allowances. There is still survival potential here, and the potential for high functional capacity. She needs to be repaired, not to be scrapped. You are in danger of throwing a perfectly good Ferrari in the crusher because the electrics do not work correctly and the steering wheel is on the wrong side." There is another murmur from the assembly, this time of amusement. The tide is turning in the dragon's favour. "The plan was always for Balichor to separate from Core, and it still is the plan for this one. I am unwilling to change hosts at present given the ability of the putative replacement as compared to this one, condition notwithstanding, but we cannot separate with the situation as it is. Issues must be resolved."
"Wolf's challenge was proven." The one who speaks now is Spider, who has just eaten one of her own Peripherals. "The Core is not functioning correctly and requires a great deal of work. Work that the Key is not doing. We should force her to withdraw."
All sixteen glance upwards, above the captive woman's head, to the back of the cavern. Following their gaze you see that there is some sort of gallery, or balcony, and there are shapes there that seem familiar but you cannot make them out. There is a sensation of great power. A single black feather floats down and suddenly the captive woman has focus.
"You do not have the capacity," she tells them. "And you certainly don't have permission. Outside Protocol, Ariadne, and you know it. If you want to make that challenge stick, you will have to do it the old-fashioned way, and pain me as it might, and weep as I will as I do it, I will defend him."
"Goddammit, woman. Will you please stop this?" The lion has shifted and now stands upright, blonde and handsome, face crumpled as if about to burst into tears.
"No, Leo, I can't and you know I can't, you understand I can't and so help me I expect you understand better than I do."
The man shifts back immediately and stands with his tail towards her, head pushing against Wolf's chest. Wolf rests his hands once more on his head and his eyes are sad.
"Unnecessary suffering. You knew then it was true," he tells her. She has started to cry again, but still remains largely motionless.
"That was a different Wolf, Phil, and I miss him, but not as much as I miss my Key. I can't give up on him. There has never been a Wyrm Key before, certainly not in our Group, and not in any of the others. Wyrm's Cores are as you see them. It is possible that there is something I am missing."
"Support is what you are missing." Of all the Cores, this one is the largest. He is massive, a great brute, hands like spades.
"You challenged too, old man, and when I asked you to formalise you refused. You have no right to argue now."
An unspoken communication passes through them like an electric current and you do not catch it but its effect on the captive woman is immediate. For the first time it appears she is struggling to break loose, as the other sixteen look at her with renewed interest.
"I will not allow that," she says.
"Your permission is irrelevant. Protocol. You said it yourself. You have no permission to give; none of us does. It is not up to you, and it just might work." Wolf gives the lion's ears a rough scratch. "It does have possibilities. Even if only temporary ones."
More unspoken communication and the woman now seems to slump, exhausted. Her form is wavering, hazy round the edges, her facial features becoming indistinct as if it is an effort to maintain any one form. The serpents around her wrists slither off, freeing her, and they are the same colour and texture as the walls of the cavern.
The dragon folds its wings around her and all disappears.