The door closed with a thud that echoed like the beat of a drum. The guards didn't linger; their steps faded quickly into silence, leaving Aria alone once again with the narrow stone walls and the flicker of a single oil lamp.
Her chest heaved, as though she had been running though she had not moved at all.
Lirien's words still rang in her ears. You are mine to command. The way he had pressed his finger against her wrist, against the insignia mark — it burned still, as if the tree's glow recoiled from his touch but could not escape. She rubbed at the spot furiously, though nothing came away but warmth.
The cell was too small. The ceiling too low. She pressed her back to the wall, drawing her knees up, listening to the scrape of her own breath.
For the first time since waking in this world, she wished fiercely for something ordinary. A city street. The hum of traffic. The chatter of voices she understood without magic fruit in her veins. She even thought of the stale air of her college library, the dog-eared books, the taste of black coffee.
She whispered aloud, her voice breaking against the walls."I just want to go home."
But no one answered.
The silence weighed heavier than Lirien's threats.
She tried to lie down on the cot, but her thoughts spun in jagged circles. Images of the glowing tree filled her mind. The students beneath its branches, laughing, learning. Sira's kindness. The way the roots seemed alive beneath her feet. And then — darker images crept in — Lirien's smirk, his finger on her wrist, the soldiers' cold eyes.
And Xyren.
Always watching. Always silent. His presence was like the shadow of the tree itself — vast, immovable, yet unreachable. Why hadn't he moved when Lirien commanded her? Why hadn't he spoken? And yet… why had she felt his gaze like an anchor in the storm?
Her head dropped into her hands. She hated this uncertainty. She hated needing answers from people who looked at her as if she didn't belong, as if she were nothing but a tool.
Time slipped strangely in the cell. Minutes felt like hours. She whispered to herself, counting breaths, as though the numbers might keep her sane.
When she finally dared to lift her head again, the oil lamp had burned low. Shadows crawled across the walls.
And then she heard it.
A sound.
Faint. Just outside the door.
Her breath caught. She didn't move at first — convinced she had imagined it. But then it came again, softer this time, almost like the scrape of fabric against stone.
She rose carefully, crossing to the door. The iron bars were cold against her palms. She pressed her ear to the crack.
Nothing.
But she could feel it. Someone was there.
Her throat tightened."…Who's there?"
The silence stretched. For a moment she thought no answer would come. And then — the faintest shift of air, like someone exhaling.
Her skin prickled. She stepped back quickly, heart pounding.
The sound faded, replaced by nothing but her own ragged breathing.
When she finally lay down again, exhaustion tugging her under, it was not peace that carried her into sleep. It was the image of storm-gray eyes on the other side of the bars, silent, waiting.
Xyren
He stood in the corridor long after the guards had left. Long after Lirien's cloak had swept away into other shadows.
Xyren leaned against the wall across from her cell, arms folded, his face unreadable. The torchlight painted lines of silver against the stone, but he did not need light. He knew she was awake. He could hear the uneven rhythm of her breathing, could feel the restless stir of her presence as if it were carved into the air.
He had seen her look at him, back beneath the tree. Eyes wide, desperate, searching. He had seen the spark of defiance when she told Lirien he didn't control everything.
It had been reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.
And brave.
The oath pressed against him like invisible chains. He had not moved, could not move, while Lirien had spoken. His silence had been its own prison. But still… he had watched.
He always watched.
She would not understand — not yet — the cost of breaking words sworn in blood. She would not understand why he bore the council's cruelty with quiet. Better that she thought him indifferent. Better she despised him than reached for him.
And yet, when he heard her whisper through the door — Who's there? — something inside him ached.
He had almost answered. Almost.
But his tongue had pressed against the memory of his vow, and the sound had died in his throat.
Xyren pushed away from the wall at last. His boots echoed softly in the corridor as he turned from the cell, his shadow stretching long and thin in the torchlight.
He did not look back.
But his thoughts stayed behind, tangled like roots with the girl who did not yet know how dangerous her own curiosity had become.