“You, on the other hand”—he levels his eyes at you with cool aplomb—“have raw talent and a lot of potential. But you’re undisciplined and untrained. Probably teaching yourself, but for now you are little more than a skilled brawler.”

You turn and flex anyway, ready to demonstrate the true craft of a brawler.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, a wan smile crossing his lips. “I mean no disrespect. I only wish to illuminate your situation. If we wanted you attacked, we’d have descended upon you from the shadows before you knew we were there. You have simply been summoned for a meeting.”

He emphasizes the word meeting to allay our concerns about this being an ambush. Or a jail cell. The Niyabinghi guard bows slightly and, with a mild flourish, directs you to the door. He remains at the door. You lower your head to enter. The room is little more than a chamber surrounding a sealed mine. Whatever vein of ore the Nguni plumbed for has been exhausted and its shaft capped off. The rocky surface—cool to the touch, nearly cold—leaves you curious if it is all that separates you from the icy vacuum of space.

Ishant inspects the room, running his hand across every uneven surface. You almost suspect that he marvels at the handiwork, the artisan expertise to shape and bevel the ore to produce the elegant sheen of the walls, drawing the beauty out of the stony outcropping. More likely, however, he’s searching for any seam, any hint of a hidden exit.

“It seems we’ve been found out.” You stare at the door, waiting for the inevitable. The rush of guards. A grand inquisitor. Lasers. This feels like the type of situation requiring lasers for a death trap.

“I don’t think so.” Ishant tends to end his sentences with a half chuckle, constantly amused by a joke only he got. “This doesn’t have the feel of incarceration.”

“Been incarcerated much?” you ask.

“Yes.” He meets your eyes with an unflinching matter-of-factness that unsettles you. “This feels more like insurance.”

“You enjoy speaking in riddles, don’t you?” Your instinct is to fashion a chair, but nothing moves at your command. Instead, you lower yourself to the ground and draw your knees up.

“Not intentionally. Jaha says I hate the bother of words when I so clearly picture something.” Ishant continues his study. Now he doesn’t fake the pretense of appreciating the artistic nature of the wall. He’s examining it for traps. For surveillance. For weakness.

“What are you picturing now?”

“A chamber that blocks most signals. In or out. Ensuring privacy, if you believe what our escort said about this simply being a meeting. If that’s the case…” He keeps running his fingers along the flooring, until his face cracks with a satisfied smile, and he withdraws a small metallic shard. “There’d have to be a site-to-site transmitter.”