.....
The glow of Nicasia Night had long faded, and Carfein slept beneath a velvet sky pricked with silver stars. The great Tree of Life loomed in silence, its massive roots curling like veins of an ancient heart. Some faint shimmer still pulsed through its bark, as though the prayers whispered hours earlier lingered in its core.
Aria sat beneath one such root, the cool stone at her back, the faint rustle of leaves above. Her mind was too crowded to sleep—visions of the council, the festival, the worship, the chants still drumming against her ears. She hugged her knees to her chest, letting her chin rest there.
Sira lingered beside her, hair unpinned and flowing like a dark waterfall, her dress crumpled from dancing. She picked absently at the edge of her sleeve, stealing glances at Aria as though she carried a question that burned against her lips.
Finally, she let it slip.
"Tell me about you," Sira whispered.
Aria blinked. "Me?"
"Yes." Sira turned her body fully toward her, tucking her legs beneath her. Her eyes glowed faintly in the starlight, like polished glass. "You speak of Earth as if it's another world, but I don't know what that means. What was your life there? Who were your people? What made you… you?"
The question cut deeper than Aria expected. Her chest tightened. She thought she had grown used to silence, to swallowing memories, but Sira's words cracked something open. She rubbed her palms against her skirt, as though steadying herself, then forced a breath.
"There wasn't much," she said softly. "No kingdoms. No glowing trees. Just… him."
Sira leaned closer. "Him?"
Aria's voice trembled. "The man who found me. I don't know who he really was. Only that he became everything."
---
She closed her eyes, letting the memories flow.
"I was very young. Too young to remember much before him. But I remember the night he told me how we met. He said he found me under a tree—an ordinary tree, not like this one—alone, wrapped in cloth, as if the world had forgotten me there. He told me he almost walked past. He was tired, carrying wood back to his cottage. But then I cried. Just once. He said it was the smallest cry he'd ever heard, like a bird. And that was enough. He picked me up and carried me home."
Her throat thickened. She had to pause. The silence stretched, broken only by the sigh of leaves overhead.
Sira touched her arm lightly. "So he raised you?"
"Yes." A faint smile flickered on Aria's lips. "He wasn't young, not even then. His hair was already streaked with gray. But he was strong. His hands were rough from chopping wood, yet gentle when he set a bowl of soup in front of me. He never called himself father, never asked me to call him anything. He was just… him. The man who made me feel like I belonged somewhere."
---
Images crowded her mind: the creak of their small cottage door, the smell of firewood, mornings filled with birdsong.
"He taught me everything. How to read, how to write, how to keep the fire alive through winter nights. I helped him in the garden. I swept the floor. And at night he told me stories—tales of wandering men, of faraway seas, of people who found treasure in places no one else dared to look. Sometimes, I think those stories were all he had to give me, but they were enough."
Her voice softened into something brittle. "We didn't have much, but… I was happy."
Sira's brows knitted, as if trying to picture such a life. "No court? No festivals? No council deciding your every step?"
Aria gave a short laugh. "None of that. Just the two of us, and the world was quiet."
---
Sira studied her, eyes bright. "But you speak of him in past tense. What happened?"
Aria's smile broke. The warmth of memory shivered into pain. She drew her arms tighter around her knees.
"He grew ill. Slowly, at first. He coughed in winter, grew tired when he cut wood. He tried to hide it from me, but I saw. And then one night… he didn't wake up."
The words tumbled out, each one sharp. She pressed her face against her knees, the weight of it crushing her chest all over again.
"I buried him under the same tree where he found me. After that, there was nothing. Just me. Alone."
The silence that followed was heavier than any council chamber.
---
Sira's eyes shimmered, though no tears fell. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper that carried both awe and sorrow.
"You lived with no magic. No family of blood. Just him. And still you speak with warmth… as if it was enough."
Aria lifted her gaze, wet eyes meeting Sira's. "It was enough. Until it wasn't."
Sira reached for her hand, hesitant at first, then firm. "I can't imagine a life like that. Here, everything is woven into the kingdom—the tree, the roots, the bloodlines. But you… you were woven only into one man. That is…" She shook her head, searching for words. "…that is both fragile and powerful."
Aria gave a broken laugh. "Fragile, yes. He was everything, and when he was gone, so was my world."
---
The tree above them rustled, though no wind stirred. The roots hummed faintly, as though listening.
Sira's expression softened. "Do you ever wonder why he found you? Why you cried that night? Why he turned instead of walking past?"
Aria swallowed. "Sometimes. Maybe it was fate. Maybe just chance."
Sira tilted her head, her voice thoughtful. "Or maybe the world had already written you into something greater. Maybe he was meant only to carry you until you could stand here, under this tree, telling me this story."
Aria stared at her, caught between disbelief and an ache of longing. "You really think so?"
"I don't know," Sira admitted, a faint smile on her lips. "But I know this: you are not ordinary. And the man who raised you—perhaps he knew it too. Perhaps that's why he gave you everything he had, even if it wasn't much."
Aria turned her gaze back to the vast trunk, glowing faintly in the night. Her chest ached with a thousand questions she couldn't voice. She wanted to believe Sira, wanted to think her life had meaning beyond loss. But all she felt was the echo of emptiness where that man's presence used to be.
She wiped her eyes quickly, not wanting to appear weak.
---
Sira shifted closer, lowering her voice. "Thank you for telling me. I know it must hurt. But I'm glad I know. Because now, when I see you, I don't see just the girl brought from Earth. I see someone who carried love and loss across worlds. That makes you… stronger than you know."
Aria didn't answer. Her heart was too tangled for words.
The night deepened. One by one, the lanterns in Carfein's towers dimmed. A hush fell across the kingdom, broken only by the steady hum of the Tree of Life.
Aria leaned back against the root, exhaustion finally overtaking her. Her eyelids grew heavy, her breath slowed.
As she drifted into sleep, Sira remained awake, watching her. Her expression was thoughtful, almost troubled, as though Aria's story stirred something within her—a recognition, or a secret she could not yet share.
She glanced once at the glowing tree above them, then back at the sleeping girl, whispering so quietly that even the roots might not hear.
"You were found beneath a tree…"
Her hand tightened against her skirt.
"…what if it wasn't chance at all?"
The question lingered unspoken as the night swallowed them whole.