Chapter Two

As they stepped through the doorway, Taren and Orin were immediately struck by the intense chill inside the house. The air, cool and crisp, felt like nothing they had ever experienced. It clung to their skin, chasing away the heat of the Red Waste, but with such suddenness that it left them shivering. Taren exchanged a glance with Orin, who stared wide-eyed at the stone floors and high ceilings. This place... it was unnatural.

"Is it... sorcery?" Orin whispered, his voice trembling.

Taren swallowed, feeling the same fear gnaw at him. He didn't know. Everything about the house was too strange—the cold air, the smooth, polished floors, and the shimmering lights that seemed to hang in the air without the need for flame or oil. Nothing about this place belonged in the world they knew.

Mark, still in his odd red clothing, glanced back and smiled at them. "I'm guessing you're not used to the cold, huh? Sorry about that. I keep it like this for my health—it helps me breathe better."

Taren narrowed his eyes, not trusting the man's easy tone, but there was no malice in his expression. The two brothers followed him further into the house, past strange furniture and items they had no name for. Even the walls seemed impossibly smooth and cold to the touch.

Eventually, they entered a grand dining room. It was enormous, with a long, elegant table made of dark wood stretching almost the entire length of the room. However, despite the size of the table, only two chairs sat at its head. Soft golden light bathed the room, though Taren couldn't see the source of it. His eyes darted nervously to the high windows, which revealed a glimpse of the Red Waste beyond. The contrast between the barren desert and the lush, opulent house was unsettling.

Before they could take in the strange sight, a woman swept into the room, her laughter bubbling like the tinkling of glass. She was tall and lively, with bright blonde, wavy hair and a shimmering gown that sparkled in the light. In her hand, she held a delicate flute filled with a bubbly liquid.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" she said, her voice rich with amusement as she approached them. "Mark, darling, you didn't tell me we'd be having guests!"

Taren instinctively stepped in front of Orin, not sure how to react to this woman's energy. There was something about her that was almost overwhelming—like a force of nature. The drink in her hand sloshed as she waved it about, and her cheeks were flushed, her smile wide and infectious.

"Mother," Mark said, nodding toward the boys, "this is Taren and Orin. I found them out by the pool. They've had a rough journey."

"Oh, the poor dears!" the woman said, clapping her free hand to her chest. "Clara Lantrun, at your service, boys. You're welcome here. We'll make sure you're comfortable." She leaned closer, looking them over with a critical eye. "Goodness, you're hurt!"

Taren stepped back, wary, but Clara's expression softened with concern. "No, no, don't be afraid, dear. You've been through a lot, haven't you?"

Orin nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on her drink, which fizzed and bubbled in a way that he had never seen before. "What... what is that?" he asked quietly.

Clara glanced at her glass and laughed. "This? Oh, just a little champagne—nothing to worry about." She knelt before them, placing her hands on their shoulders. "Now, hold still, my loves. Let's take care of those wounds."

Taren flinched as her hands began to glow softly, a warm light emanating from her palms. He tried to pull away, but found he couldn't—something in her touch was soothing, calming. His mind screamed that this was magic, that it was dangerous, but his body relaxed, his pain ebbing away as the light worked through him. Orin's eyes widened in awe as the bruises and cuts on his arms began to disappear.

"There we go," Clara said, standing up again. "Good as new! You'll be just fine now."

Taren stared at his now-healed skin, disbelief washing over him. "H-how did you do that?" he asked, his voice shaky. "What kind of power is this?"

Clara smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, darling, that's a long story. But first, we need to make sure you're properly fed. Mark?"

Mark nodded, and with a casual wave of his hand, two more chairs materialized at the table, as if conjured from thin air. Taren and Orin gawked at the sight, unable to comprehend what was happening.

"Come, sit," Mark said, gesturing for them to take a seat. "There's a lot we need to explain, but it's best to do it over a good meal."

The brothers hesitated before cautiously sitting in the new chairs. The table, so massive and elaborate, felt far too grand for just four people. But then, Mark waved his hand again, and the table began to fill with strange, flat disks covered in melted cheese, spiced meats, and vegetables. The smell was intoxicating.

"What... is this?" Orin asked, his stomach growling loudly.

"Pizza," Mark said with a grin. "Trust me, you'll love it."

The boys exchanged a glance, but the delicious aroma was too much to resist. They grabbed slices of the strange food and bit into them ravenously. The taste was unlike anything they had ever known—rich, savory, and filling.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the boys devouring the food, their hunger overwhelming any sense of caution.

Mark leaned back in his chair, watching them with a smile. Clara, still sipping her champagne, beamed with satisfaction.

When the boys had eaten their fill, Taren looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "How... how is all of this possible? The food, the house, everything?"

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His expression grew more serious, though his smile never entirely left his face.

"Well," he said, his voice calm but filled with mystery, "that's a long story. But we'll get to that soon enough. First, let's finish dinner."

With another wave of his hand, more food appeared on the table, and Taren and Orin exchanged a glance, knowing that the world they had stumbled into was far stranger than anything they could have imagined.