Aria had never felt walls close in on her the way they did now.
The chamber they'd locked her in after the council was spacious—more than spacious, really. High-arched ceilings traced with silver veins of rootstone, windows that stretched nearly to the floor, draped in fabrics that shimmered faintly as though spun from starlight. A bed softer than anything she had known on Earth waited in the corner, piled with quilts embroidered with constellations she did not recognize.
It should have been a room fit for a guest, maybe even a princess. But to Aria, it was nothing more than a cage.
Her hands still trembled as she pressed them to the wooden desk in the corner. The council's words echoed in her skull:
"You will never return to Earth.""You belong here now, until your last breath."
Her throat tightened. No matter how many times she told herself not to cry, the tears came anyway. They slipped hot and shameful down her cheeks. She buried her face against the quilt and let them come until she had nothing left but ragged breaths.
When at last the sobs quieted, silence pressed in heavy and absolute. No voices. No footsteps. Just the faint hum of something alive in the walls—the strange lifeblood of Carfein pulsing through the roots embedded in the castle stone. It made her skin crawl.
She did not know how much time passed before the door creaked.
Aria jerked upright, wiping at her eyes, heart hammering. She expected Lirien, or worse, Xyren. But it was neither.
A girl no older than Aria herself stepped quietly inside, carrying a silver tray. Her skin shimmered pale-blue in the torchlight, her hair pulled into a braid that spilled nearly to her waist. Unlike the council, she had no crown, no insignia, no wings or tails—just pointed ears and eyes too luminous to be human.
She lowered her gaze quickly, almost nervously, as she set the tray on the desk.
Food.
Steam curled from a bowl of something that looked like soup, though the liquid was faintly golden and smelled faintly of honey and herbs. Beside it sat a plate of bread dark as soil, and a small carafe of water glowing faintly as though lit from within.
The girl murmured something in the Quarties' tongue, bowing her head.
Aria flinched back. "I—I don't understand you." Her voice cracked with exhaustion.
The girl blinked, hesitated, then carefully mimed eating, pressing her hands together as if in prayer, then pointing toward Aria.
Aria swallowed. The insignia fruit still let her understand their words, but this girl's dialect was strange, her voice softer, almost untrained. "Is it… for me?"
The girl tilted her head, searching Aria's expression, then gave the faintest nod.
Aria stared at the food. Her stomach twisted with hunger, but suspicion coiled sharper. Was it poisoned? Was it some trick to make her compliant? The council's words rang in her head—you will never leave. What if they wanted her dead already?
Her hands curled into fists on her knees.
The girl noticed her hesitation. Slowly, almost timidly, she reached for the bowl, scooped a spoonful, and brought it to her lips. She swallowed, then offered the spoon back with a faint smile, as if to say: See? Safe.
Aria's chest tightened. For the first time since she had been dragged into this world, someone—anyone—had tried to reassure her.
She took the spoon. Her hands still trembled, but she tasted the broth.
Warmth spread across her tongue. It was unlike anything she had tasted before, rich and layered, sweet at first, then earthy, like roots pulled fresh from the ground. Hunger tore away the last of her resistance, and before she realized it, she had devoured half the bowl.
When she finally looked up, the girl was watching her with wide, bright eyes.
Aria licked her lips, embarrassed. "…Thank you."
The girl tilted her head again. She didn't seem to understand, but the soft smile lingered. She placed her hand on her chest. "Sira."
Aria blinked. "…Sira?"
The girl nodded. She touched her own chest again. "Sira."
A name.
Aria's throat thickened. She hadn't realized until now how desperately she needed that small gesture—someone introducing themselves not as her captor, not as her interrogator, but simply as a person.
She touched her chest in return. "Aria."
Sira repeated it clumsily. "Ah-ree-ah."
Something in Aria cracked open. For a fleeting moment, the walls of the castle seemed less suffocating.
They exchanged halting attempts at words after that, though most of it dissolved into gestures and laughter when they failed to understand. Sira traced shapes in the air—stars, birds, maybe memories of her own childhood. Aria tried to mimic them, clumsy and awkward, but Sira's laughter was soft and genuine, never cruel.
When the tray was finally empty, Sira gathered it again. At the door, she hesitated, looking back at Aria. Her eyes glowed faintly, catching the torchlight like facets of crystal. Then she gave a small nod, almost solemn, before slipping out into the hall.
Aria stared after her long after the door closed.
Her chest ached with homesickness, yes. With fear, yes. But beneath all of it, a fragile warmth had settled in her ribs.
For the first time since she had woken in that cave, she felt… not entirely alone.
And that sliver of kindness was enough to steady her heart, enough to let her whisper to herself as she lay back against the quilt:
"I will survive this."