The night air clung to Aria's skin, cool and sharp, as though even the wind was watching her. The Tree's silver glow still burned in her vision long after she turned from the balcony.
Lirien—she did not yet know his name, only that his voice was steady as a blade—motioned for her to follow. She hesitated, but his eyes flicked to her with such cold certainty that her legs obeyed before her mind could resist.
They walked through winding halls carved from pale stone, the walls veined with the same luminous silver she had seen in the cave. Tall windows let in moonlight, and everywhere she looked she saw details that felt… wrong. Sculptures of winged beings arched like blades. Murals painted not with colors but with living metals that caught the light and twisted her reflection.
At last, Lirien pushed open a tall set of doors, and the chamber beyond stole her breath.
It was a library unlike any she had ever dreamed. Rows upon rows of shelves spiraled upward, ladders gliding on invisible tracks. Candles floated in midair, their flames steady and white. Scrolls rested in neat stacks on tables of dark wood, alongside crystals that pulsed softly, like beating hearts.
"You will work here," Lirien said simply.
Aria swallowed, her voice a fragile whisper. "Work… how?"
"You will read." He gestured, and one of the crystals flared, illuminating a stack of books. She recognized the script instantly—English.
Her chest tightened. "That's… mine."
"You will translate. Line by line. Word by word."
Her lips parted in protest, but before she could speak, another voice rang out from the far side of the chamber.
"Another human?"
Aria's heart lurched. A figure leaned against one of the marble pillars, tall and broad-shouldered, his posture sharp with restrained energy. His hair caught the silver light, dark with a faint metallic sheen, and his eyes—bright, burning—fixed on her with a curiosity edged in scorn.
He wore no chains, no marks of a prisoner, but something in the stillness of his stance told her he was no freer than she was.
"She will serve Carfein," Lirien replied coldly.
The other's gaze lingered on her, unyielding, assessing. Then he looked back at Lirien. "And you think dragging mortals into our halls will keep the Tree's secrets safe?"
Aria's chest tightened. Mortals?
"Mind your tongue, Xyren," Lirien said, though his voice lacked true heat.
The name rooted in her mind: Xyren. The way he carried himself—the strength in his frame, the sharpness in his eyes—made him look more like a prince than a soldier.
But there was something else.
She saw it in the flicker of tension across his face, in the brief pause before he stepped aside. Whatever power he held, it bent beneath Lirien's command. Not because of fear—his eyes burned too fiercely for that—but because of something heavier.
An oath.
Aria didn't understand how she knew, only that she could feel it. Some invisible thread bound him, woven into the very air.
Xyren's gaze cut back to her, sharp as a blade. "Be careful, human. The fruit that lets you speak our tongue may also make you hear more than you wish."
Her stomach tightened. She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but Lirien's hand closed firmly on her arm.
"Enough. You will begin tomorrow," he said, steering her toward the door.
As she stumbled under his grip, Aria dared one last glance back.
Xyren hadn't moved. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—bright, unyielding—burned through her.
Bound, yet dangerous.
And somehow, she knew his story was entwined with hers, though neither of them could see how.