Two Eyes Cenote A Winged Insect to Your Funeral Pyre

He releases her and she retreats, wiping at the dampened cheeks with the back of her wrist. Only when she is recomposed does she turn to face Machiavelli again, whose claw is plunked into the center of her map, an indentation made where a wall should be.

“That’s not possible,” she declares stubbornly while clearing her throat, “I mapped these routes out myself.”

Poising over the blueprints, Eset triple checks her work, tracing the intricate hallways in her mind and considering the rooms and alcoves that often went overlooked. For long her stare burns a hole at his point, until her head snaps back in flustered realization. It cannot be accounted for.

She looks up at Machiavelli, the tears still standing in her eyes.

“Take me there.”