The dark was alive.
It pressed against Aria's skin, heavy and suffocating, as though the cave itself meant to swallow her whole. When she finally dared to open her eyes, she found no comfort. The chamber around her was vast, carved of stone that shimmered faintly with veins of some luminous mineral. Tall shelves loomed in crooked rows, stacked with scrolls, brittle pages, and heavy tomes bound in strange leathers. Dust hung in the air like a second skin, and every breath she drew tasted stale, ancient.
Her head pounded. She pressed a trembling hand to her temple, trying to steady herself, but all she could remember was a blur—light, shadows, the feeling of being pulled, and then… nothing.
Now there was only silence.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. It echoed into the dark and came back hollow, mocking.
No answer.
Aria wrapped her arms around her knees, her heart thundering. She had never felt so small, so terribly alone. These shelves were not human. The symbols carved into the spines of the books curled and twisted like living vines, language that shifted when she tried to focus on it.
A soft scrape cut through the silence.
Her breath caught.
Footsteps.
Someone—or something—was moving between the shelves. Closer. Steady.
She scrambled back, pressing her spine against the cold stone wall. Her fingers found only dust and cracks, no weapon, no escape. Shadows swayed before her, until a figure stepped into the faint light.
A boy.
Or at least, he looked like one.
He was tall, his frame lean but commanding. His hair was dark and straight, falling almost too neatly to his shoulders. His eyes—sharp, glinting like polished metal—fixed on her with unnerving calm. His ears tapered into delicate points, and his movements carried an elegance that was too practiced to be human.
He spoke. His voice was low, his words smooth, but they broke against her ears like water on stone—foreign, incomprehensible.
Aria's lips parted. "I… I don't understand."
The boy tilted his head, narrowing his gaze. He repeated himself, slower, as though the weight of his tone alone should force meaning into her.
"I don't know what you're saying!" Aria's voice cracked, louder this time, trembling. She pressed herself harder against the wall, wishing she could sink into it.
His expression flickered—something like irritation, not pity. Without another word, he reached into his cloak and drew out a fruit.
It was round, pale as ivory, and smooth as marble. For a heartbeat, it looked like nothing more than an apple, though the faint shimmer on its skin made her uneasy.
He extended it toward her.
Aria stared. "What…?"
He repeated his words again—still foreign, still sharp. His tone was command, not request.
She shook her head frantically. "No… I don't—no!"
But he stepped closer, his boots tapping against the stone, his arm steady as he pushed the fruit toward her. His eyes never wavered.
Eat.
That was the meaning, even if she didn't know the words.
Her chest tightened. Her throat burned with the threat of tears. For all she knew, it was poison. A trick. Something that would end her life in this strange, terrible place. But his gaze locked onto hers—unyielding, cold, a silent warning that refusal would not be tolerated.
Her hands shook as she reached out and took the fruit. It was heavier than it looked, warm against her palm, as though pulsing faintly with life.
Her heart hammered. Her lips parted. She raised it slowly to her mouth.
Just one bite.
The skin broke beneath her teeth with a crisp snap. Sweetness spilled across her tongue—sweetness tinged with something hotter, like honey laced with fire. She coughed, choking as the warmth slid down her throat, spreading into her veins.
Her vision blurred. The shelves swayed, the symbols on the books writhing—then suddenly they snapped into place. The words steadied. They formed sentences. They spoke.
She gasped, clutching at the shelf for balance. Her blood felt as though it was aflame, her breath shallow. "What… what did you make me eat?"
This time, when the boy spoke, his words rang clear, sharp as steel.
"The Insignia Fruit," he said. His voice was no longer foreign—it cut straight into her understanding. "Now you will serve Carfein."
He turned, gesturing for her to follow. Too stunned to resist, Aria stumbled after him through a winding passage carved into the stone. The cave narrowed, the shelves giving way to smooth walls marked with glowing veins of silver.
At last, they emerged into light.
Aria blinked, her breath stolen from her chest.
They stood in a tower chamber, high above the world. The air was cool, carrying a sweetness she couldn't name. Drawn as if in a dream, she stepped toward the open balcony, her fingers brushing against the marble railing.
And there it was.
Carfein.
The kingdom sprawled across floating land bathed in moonlight, its spires and bridges woven into the roots of an immense, glowing tree. The Tree itself was breathtaking—its branches arched into the heavens, its trunk vast enough to hold a city, its leaves shimmering with silver-green light. Roots as thick as mountains plunged downward into the mist, reaching for the earth far below.
The sky around it shimmered with constellations she didn't recognize, stars scattered like shards of crystal. It was beautiful. Terrible. Otherworldly.
Aria gripped the balcony rail until her knuckles whitened. For the first time since waking, she found her voice again—soft, broken, awed.
"What… is this place?"
The boy's eyes reflected the silver glow of the Tree.
"Skyria," he said simply. "And you belong to it now."