The evening air was heavy with the scent of moss and damp stone, drifting into Aria's lungs as she leaned over the cold railing of the balcony. Below her, Carfein shimmered with flickers of torchlight, rivers of silver moonlight running through its narrow streets. The glow of the Tree of Life pulsed faintly in the distance, veins of blue weaving like lightning through its massive trunk.
She gripped the rail harder. It should have been beautiful—enchanting even—but the weight of her thoughts pressed harder than the night sky. Every council word, every reminder that she did not belong, echoed until her head hurt.
Footsteps. Soft, deliberate.
She stiffened before turning. Xyren.
He stood at the edge of the doorway, tall and rigid, the moonlight casting half his face in shadow. His eyes were unreadable, though she thought she caught a glint—anger, or maybe curiosity.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, voice cool, controlled.
Aria let out a sharp laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Alone? That's all I've been since I woke up in this cursed place."
Xyren's jaw tightened. He moved closer, his boots clicking against the stone floor. "You act as though you're the only one who's trapped. You think you're suffering more than anyone else?"
Her eyes narrowed. "At least you belong here. This is your world. Your people. Your rules. I was dragged in without choice."
"And yet," his gaze pinned her, "you're alive. Many are not so fortunate."
The sharpness of his tone made her chest sting. She turned back to the railing, refusing to let him see her falter. "Fortunate? To be a prisoner dressed in silk, mocked by kings, and ordered around like some puzzle-solving tool?"
He was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost dangerous. "You have no idea what chains truly feel like."
Aria whipped around. "Then enlighten me, oh prince. Tell me what it's like to watch your father sneer at you, to live in the shadow of brothers and oaths you never asked to take. Do you think I don't see it? You hide behind silence, but it leaks through your eyes every time you're forced to bow."
For the first time, something broke in his expression. A flash of fury, quick and burning. He stepped closer until the air between them throbbed with tension.
"You speak of things you don't understand," he hissed. "You think your clever eyes can strip me bare? You know nothing of the oath I carry… or why I chose it."
Her pulse raced, but she refused to back away. "Chose? Or were you cornered until there was nothing else left?"
Silence. Heavy. Cracking.
Xyren's fists clenched at his sides. The veins of blue light from the Tree reflected faintly in his irises, making him look otherworldly—untouchable, yet so very human in that moment of rage.
Finally, he leaned forward, his words cutting like a blade."Careful, Aria. You pry at doors that even I dare not open."
Her throat tightened, but she steadied her voice. "And yet you came out here. Why? To warn me? To scare me? Or because you're just as restless, just as broken, as I am?"
Something shifted in his eyes, sharp as a blade unsheathed. In three long strides, Xyren closed the distance.
Before she could retreat, his arm shot out, bracing against the stone wall just beside her shoulder. The sudden motion jolted her, and she stumbled back—straight into the balcony's curve. Trapped.
The night air pressed heavy between them. His face was inches from hers, close enough that she felt the heat radiating from him despite the cold breeze. Their mouths were separated by a breath, too close for comfort, too far for surrender.
Aria's pulse hammered in her ears. "What—what are you doing?" she whispered, hating the tremor in her voice.
"Making sure you understand," he said, low and fierce, each word brushed with restrained anger. His hand tightened against the stone, veins standing out beneath pale skin. "You think you can read me? Break me down with careless words? Then look closer, Aria. Tell me if you still see weakness."
Her back pressed harder into the wall, but her chin lifted stubbornly. "I see a boy choking on chains he pretends are his crown."
His jaw clenched. The words sliced through him—she could see it, feel it. For a moment she thought he might push away, retreat into silence again. Instead, he leaned closer, until the shadows of his hair brushed her forehead, until their breaths mingled.
"Careful," he repeated, but this time it wasn't a warning. It was something darker, more dangerous—an edge wrapped in heat.
Aria's lips parted, a retort ready, but no sound came. The proximity, the weight of his gaze—it scrambled her thoughts into a tangled mess. She could smell the faint spice of his breath, see the flicker of blue light from the Tree reflected in his irises.
The air between them trembled. One wrong word, one reckless movement, and the fragile line they stood on would shatter.
At last, she forced out a breath. "Then show me, Xyren. Show me what chains feel like."
His eyes searched hers, hunting for fear, for mockery, for anything he could use to push her away. But all he found was defiance wrapped in trembling resolve.
And that, perhaps, unnerved him more than anything.
For a suspended heartbeat, neither moved. Their mouths were separated only by the whisper of the night wind, the unsaid heavy as iron between them.
Then—suddenly—Xyren tore his arm back, spinning away as though burned. His boots echoed against the stone as he put space between them, breath sharp, shoulders stiff.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, his voice rawer now, stripped of the usual cold control. "And I won't be the one to teach you."
Aria leaned against the wall, her chest heaving, her fingers trembling at her sides. She didn't chase him. She couldn't. But the ghost of his nearness clung to her skin, branded there by the night.
When he vanished back through the doorway, she let her knees buckle, sliding to the floor of the balcony. She pressed her forehead to the cold stone, heart racing like a storm trapped in a cage.
The Tree of Life still glowed in the distance, its veins of light pulsing steadily—as though it had witnessed everything, and would remember.