The morning light that poured into Aria's chamber was unlike any she had ever known—gold shot through with pale green, as if the very air of Carfein bent the sun into colors unseen on Earth.
She woke to it reluctantly, still exhausted from the council's harsh decree. Her dreams had been tangled with voices, with images of roots twisting into her skin, of endless skies she could not reach.
The door creaked.
Sira entered again with her silver tray, a quiet smile on her face. Her presence had already become a thread of comfort, fragile but precious. She set down the food—thick porridge, glowing water, fruit that bled blue when cut—and settled across from Aria as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
This time, Aria didn't hesitate to eat. Hunger gnawed too fiercely, and Sira's patience soothed her nerves. They spoke again in halting words and gestures, laughter softening the gloom.
For a moment, Aria forgot her cage.
But when the door opened a second time, laughter died in her throat.
Lirien entered. His presence was cold shadow against the fragile warmth Sira had spun. His pale eyes flicked between them, unreadable, before settling on Aria.
"You've grown comfortable," he said flatly.
Aria set her spoon down. "Comfort isn't a crime, is it?"
His brow lifted. "For you, perhaps it is. Do not mistake walls of silk for freedom. You are still a prisoner."
Sira rose quickly, bowing her head. She gathered the tray, casting Aria a fleeting glance before slipping out, silent as falling leaves. The door shut behind her, and the air seemed heavier for it.
Now there were only two.
Lirien crossed the chamber slowly, like a predator circling its prey. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "You have not opened the documents again."
Aria swallowed, forcing her voice steady. "Maybe because I didn't feel like it."
A flicker of amusement touched his lips, though it was colder than a smile. "Ah, but you forget—your feelings are irrelevant. Those pages are older than kingdoms, older than my father's crown. They are not yours to withhold."
Aria's fists clenched. "And what if I refuse?"
Lirien tilted his head, eyes narrowing with interest. "Then you will learn what it means to be truly alone. And loneliness, Aria, is a sharper blade than chains."
Her breath caught, but she forced herself not to look away. "You threaten me every time you open your mouth. Why? What do you gain by scaring me?"
This time, he laughed softly—low, humorless. "Because fear makes people truthful. And you… you are cleverer than most realize. That is why I brought you here."
Her pulse hammered. "Brought me? You mean kidnapped me."
"If that word pleases you," Lirien said smoothly. He straightened, pacing a slow circle. "But tell me—do you truly wish to return to Earth? To a world that does not know you, that would never believe you?"
The words struck harder than she wanted to admit. She thought of her tiny apartment, of her half-finished college courses, of the quiet life she had never felt entirely at home in. Her throat tightened.
"I… I still want to go back," she whispered. "Because it's mine."
Lirien studied her in silence, his expression unreadable. Then, softly: "You may find this world becomes yours too, if you learn to see it."
Aria shook her head, voice cracking. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for your tree, or your prophecies, or your council."
"No," he murmured. "But fate rarely asks permission."
She flinched at the word—fate.
Silence stretched. Then Lirien leaned closer, his voice dropping, cold but strangely intimate:
"Tonight, we work again. You will read. You will unlock what even my blood cannot. And when you do, Aria, you will begin to understand why the Tree chose you."
Her breath stilled. "The Tree… chose me?"
A faint smirk curved his lips. "Do you think insignia fruit finds its way to just anyone's hand?"
Before she could answer, he turned sharply and strode toward the door. His cloak swept behind him like shadow spilling across stone.
At the threshold, he paused, his voice low, almost a whisper:
"Remember—your cleverness is your only shield. Use it, or be swallowed by this place."
And then he was gone, leaving her alone with the silence once more.
Aria sank back into her chair, trembling.
The food still smelled sweet, the sunlight still bathed the chamber in pale green—but the weight of Lirien's words made it all taste of ash.
And yet, beneath the fear, one truth echoed in her chest, unwelcome but undeniable:
She was not just a prisoner anymore. She was part of something vast, something dangerous.
And she could not run from it.