Face to face, eye to eye, life to death: that was how Sahara and the Necromancer stood. Her pale form against his dark; her golden aura against his shadowed soul; her sacred innocence against his cryptic discipline. Neither saw anything else, only the other. There was silence; though a sound of metal against metal rang in the distance, a howl or a screech sounded in the forest, a rustle or a moan came from the trees, in that chamber, that verdant and crimson wall of mist and evil, there was silence.
         The wall began to fade, but Sahara had no where to go. Even if she tried to leave, even if the elements and forces allowed her movement, her fate would be no less inevitable than standing face to face with the dark one. That is why she stood there, still watching his eyes, them watching hers, and stood there still when all the mist and skeletons faded. Then they were alone, alone in silence, until his lips parted, and his first words burned her ears.
         “Fear not what you can’t see, but what is presented before your eyes, elven woman,” he said in a cold and almost serene voice. It lingered in the air, echoed off the trees, but seemed to die in the night. No, it didn’t die in the night; it was the night. It was carried far, on dark winds, across dark grounds, over dark beings, but yet no creature of the light would hear the words, except Sahara.
         “Your ignorance has brought you here,” he continued, “and it will be just that which takes your soul from you, which strips you of life and beauty, of innocence and solace, and leaves you a corpse, a Child of Mundi.” His words were very haunting, almost turning the blood in Sahara to cold liquid. She feared the words, and she feared him. Nothing before had brought such fear into her body, and the feeling of the deep darkness was so new and enchanting, it almost made her feel empty.
         “I can hear you breathing heavier,” he added as he watched her lips part, letting the air enter and then drain from her lungs. He watched her chest rise and lower with every breath, and smiled back up at her. “I shall, with my dark hands, pull the last breath from your lips,” he said slowly as his hand raised to her face, “and watch as you suffocate, draining what color you have from your elven body, and leaving you a pale shadow in my lands.” His hand touched her cheek, but she did not move back, nor knock it away. Instead, she shivered ever so slightly, but enough for the Necromancer to notice.