The summons came at dawn.
Aria was wrenched from her uneasy sleep by the clatter of boots in the corridor and the voice of a guard barking her name. Her stomach twisted, for she already knew where she was being taken. The Council. Again.
She walked between the guards, her hands clenched so tightly she thought her nails would break skin. The corridors seemed endless, the carved walls looming, the colored glass high above painting her with fractured light. At last they entered the council chamber, and she saw them—the half-circle of figures draped in heavy robes, the flicker of braziers painting their eyes with flame. At their center, King Julian slumped against his throne, his crown gleaming in the dim.
"Bring her forward," the king commanded, his voice rough with age.
Aria stepped onto the stone circle, her throat dry. The guards fell back.
"Child of Earth," one of the councilors began, his voice sharp as a blade. "You have been entrusted with the documents found in the caves. You claim to understand them. Speak. What truths have you uncovered?"
Her breath faltered. Everyone's eyes pressed down on her. She wanted to lie, to claim she had seen nothing—but she remembered Lirien's cold smile, the pressure of his hand on her shoulder, the promise that she would regret silence. She could not escape.
So she told them.
Her words shook, but she spoke of the diary's strange entries—the notes on Quartie bloodlines, the records of powers and prophecies, and the experiments that spoke of bending life itself through the veins of the tree. She did not dare mention names, only fragments of what she had pieced together. "It is… dangerous," she whispered, staring at her hands. "He wrote that life can be twisted, shaped by will. That the roots themselves hold more than we see. He warned that what is broken cannot always be mended."
A murmur rippled through the council. Some exchanged sharp glances. Others leaned forward, hunger glinting in their eyes.
"Dangerous knowledge," one muttered.
"Perhaps forbidden," another added.
Julian raised a trembling hand, silencing them. His gaze fell on Aria, heavy and piercing despite his frailty. "And yet you read it, girl of another world. Does it frighten you?"
Aria swallowed. "Yes… it does."
The king leaned back, his lips curling faintly. "Good. Perhaps you are not as blind as some would wish."
Her knees nearly buckled with relief when the king finally waved her away. The guards seized her arms, leading her out. The council's whispers echoed behind her like the hiss of serpents.
By evening, the city had transformed.
Carfein's streets blazed with lanterns of pale blue fire, their glow flickering like stars caught in glass. Banners of silver and white draped from every balcony. Children darted through the crowd, their laughter rising above the music of flutes and drums. It was the night of Nicasia, the festival of worship beneath the sacred tree.
Aria walked beside Sira, the younger girl practically pulling her forward with bubbling excitement. "Come, you must see it! Don't hide in the shadows—this is the one night we all breathe together."
Aria forced a smile. She could not deny the beauty. The air smelled of sweet fruit and burning herbs, the mingled perfume of celebration. Dancers swirled through the plazas, their garments glittering with threads of silver, their faces painted in spirals of glowing dye.
When they reached the roots of the great tree, Aria's breath caught.
The Tree of Life towered above all, vast and ancient, its veins pulsing with light that spread through its branches like rivers of stars. Hundreds of Quarties knelt before it, their voices rising in a chant that made the ground itself hum. The tree glowed brighter with each word, until it seemed the very night sky bent low to listen.
Aria stood frozen, awash in the sight. She had never seen anything so impossibly beautiful, so alive.
"Breathe," Sira whispered, nudging her. "It will not bite." She grinned and tugged her again. "Dance with me."
"I—no, I can't—"
"Yes, you can." Sira dragged her into the circle of dancers, spinning her before Aria could protest. Laughter bubbled from the crowd as they whirled. Aria stumbled, then found herself moving, swept up in the rhythm. For a moment she forgot the council, the fear, even the diary. She let herself be pulled along, her heart pounding not with terror but with something dangerously close to joy.
When the dancing ended, the worship began. Silence fell as the high priest raised his staff, the chants beginning low and soft. Quarties bowed their heads, their hands pressed to the earth. The glowing veins brightened, flooding the clearing with a holy radiance. It felt like standing inside a heartbeat, the tree's pulse echoing through every bone.
Aria lowered her head too, though she had no words of prayer. A strange warmth settled over her shoulders, as though unseen eyes rested there. For one fleeting instant, she thought she heard a whisper in the glow—too faint to catch, but enough to make her heart stumble.
When the prayers ended, peace hung in the air like dew. People lingered, speaking in hushed voices, laughing gently, reluctant to leave the glow behind.
Sira pulled Aria toward a quieter edge, away from the crowd. They sat beneath a tangle of roots, the night breeze cooling their flushed faces.
Sira leaned back, sighing happily. "Every Nicasia, I feel like I can breathe again. Like the tree listens and forgives. It's… home."
Aria hugged her knees, staring at the glowing branches. For a long while, they said nothing.
Then Sira turned to her, curiosity sparking in her eyes. "Aria… tell me something. What was Earth like?"
The question struck like a bell. Aria blinked at her, startled. "Earth?"
"Yes." Sira smiled faintly. "You carry it with you, in the way you look at things. I can tell. Please. Tell me about it."
Aria's throat tightened. She stared at her hands, twisting them together. "It's… different. So different I don't know where to begin."
"Begin anywhere," Sira urged gently.
Aria drew in a shaking breath. "It's loud. Not like your music, not with prayers. Loud with machines, with people rushing everywhere. The air smells of iron and smoke, not fruit and herbs. But there are quiet places too. My favorite was when it rained—I'd sit by the window and listen for hours. Or in the park, where the trees weren't as tall as yours, but… they were mine."
Sira listened, her expression soft. "It sounds strange. And lonely."
Aria's voice cracked. "I didn't think it was. Not until I lost it. Now it feels like a dream I'll never touch again."
Sira's hand found hers, warm and steady. "Do you miss it?"
"Every moment," Aria whispered. Her eyes burned. "And yet… they tell me if I go back, I'll die. That Earth will kill me now. So I don't belong here, and I can't go home. I'm nowhere."
For a heartbeat, only the hum of the tree answered.
Then Sira squeezed her hand. "You're here. You breathe the same air we do. You laugh. You stumble. That's enough."
Aria turned toward her, her chest tight. "But… what if I never see Earth again?"
Sira's gaze didn't waver. "Then maybe you were never meant to return."
The words hit harder than Aria expected. She opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came. Her throat closed, and she looked back at the glowing tree. It pulsed like a heart, steady and eternal, as if mocking her fleeting doubts.
Silence stretched between them. The festival sounds still drifted in the air—music, laughter, the chanting of prayers—but here, beneath the shadow of the roots, it felt distant.
Aria pulled her knees tighter to her chest. For the first time, she dared to whisper the truth out loud, so soft only Sira could hear.
"I don't belong anywhere."
Sira's hand tightened around hers. She didn't speak, but her eyes said what words couldn't: I hear you. I see you.
And that, somehow, was both a comfort and a knife.
Aria stared at the glowing branches, her heart aching with the impossible distance between worlds, and knew that tonight's peace could not last.