------XYREN-------
The Nicasia Night festival was a roar of music and color, but Xyren heard none of it the way others did.
From the edge of the courtyard, beneath the shadow of a stone archway, he leaned against the cold wall and folded his arms, his jaw tight. Lanterns swung from the roots overhead, dripping blue light across the open square. Quarties twirled in their flowing garments, voices raised in laughter, in prayer, in song.
He should have been unmoved. He had seen Nicasia Night nineteen times in his long life; it had always been the same—the dances, the rites, the worship of the Tree of Life glowing with its unnatural veins of light. But this year, something gnawed at him.
Because of her.
Aria.
The human girl stood among them as if the gods themselves had dropped her from the sky to mock him. She was out of place—her dark black hair falling loose and heavy, her skin holding warmth instead of the moon-pale sheen of the Quarties, her gown sitting imperfectly on her shoulders as though borrowed from another world. And yet—when the lanterns caught her face, when the tree's glow painted her figure—every pair of eyes seemed to wander to her.
And so did his.
Xyren clenched his fists. He hated himself for it, hated the strange pull that refused to loosen. She was human—fragile, brief, insignificant. A life like hers could burn out in a blink. She had no right to command attention here, in this place carved by his people's blood.
Yet she did.
He saw the way Sira stayed close to her, whispering with that brightness reserved for chosen friends. He saw the curiosity in the students' eyes when they glanced her way, the quiet stir of murmurs following her movements. Even the glow of the Tree seemed to catch on her hair, as if choosing to crown her.
Something twisted sharp in his chest. Jealousy, he named it, though it was a poison he had not tasted in years.
---
When the dancers began their spiral around the roots, Aria lingered at the edge, hesitant. Her bare arms shivered against the night air, and when Sira tugged her toward the circle, Xyren felt his stomach knot.
"Don't," he muttered under his breath, though no one heard.
She went anyway.
And when she moved, though clumsy compared to Quarty grace, there was something in her—the stubborn set of her shoulders, the untamed fall of her hair—that drew him more tightly than any practiced dancer. He hated it. Hated how he could not tear his eyes away.
He remembered, too sharply, how he had once mocked her, cornered her, spat his envy into her face. Now she danced beneath the Tree of Life, and he could not look without feeling his throat close.
---
The ritual prayers followed. Thousands bowed, hands pressed to earth. The glow of the Tree intensified, pulsing like veins of a living heart. Xyren bent too, his forehead brushing cold stone, but his prayers dissolved halfway into silence. His mind was not with the roots—it was with her.
Did she pray too? Did she, who came from Earth, know what it meant to lay her voice into the marrow of Skyria?
When he dared glance, he saw her head bowed, her hair spilling like ink across her gown, her eyes clenched as if she carried secrets in her chest she could never voice aloud.
And for the first time in years, fear coiled beneath his ribs.
Not fear of her, but of what she might awaken in him.
---
The festival roared on into the night, but Xyren's temper soured with each passing hour. He drank nothing, ate nothing, danced with no one. He stood and watched, cold and still, until the last of the lanterns dimmed.
That was when Lirien came.
"Brother." His voice was smooth, too smooth. Xyren turned to find him standing in the archway's shadow, his pale hair gleaming under the dying light.
"What."
"You shouldn't skulk," Lirien said, almost lazily. "It draws suspicion."
"I care nothing for suspicion."
"No," Lirien said, his lips curving. "But I do."
Before Xyren could respond, hands seized his arms. Two guards, masked and silent, stepped from the shadows and twisted his wrists behind his back. He snarled, shoving, but they were prepared. Chains bit into his skin, glowing faintly with binding runes.
"What is this?" His voice thundered, but no one turned—too many still sang and shouted in drunken joy, too far to hear.
"Just a precaution," Lirien said. His smile was almost kind. "You've been restless. And I can't have restlessness during sacred nights."
"You dare—"
"I dare." Lirien's eyes gleamed. "Because you let me. Don't you, little brother?"
The words dug deeper than the chains. Xyren's mouth dried. He thought of the oath, the iron-blood tie that bound him to Lirien's will. He thought of the promise he had made years ago, foolish and unbreakable, the reason he could never lift a hand against him.
So he fell silent, and the guards dragged him into the dark.
---
The cage was deep within the castle—iron wrought from roots hardened by fire, lined with runes that hummed against his veins. They threw him inside, the door clanging shut with a finality that echoed too loudly in his chest.
Xyren gripped the bars, his breath sharp, his pride burning. He could fight armies, could wield steel and blood, but against this cage, against the oath, he was nothing.
He slammed his forehead once against the bars. Rage boiled in him like fire trapped in stone.
And yet—when the fury subsided, when silence filled the chamber—the first image that surfaced was not Lirien's smug face.
It was hers.
Aria, standing in lantern light, her hair loose and dark against the blue glow. Aria, uncertain yet unbroken, dancing at the edge of a circle she did not belong to. Aria, bowing beneath the Tree as if the roots themselves had been waiting for her.
He cursed under his breath.
"She's nothing," he growled to the empty air. "A human. A stranger. Fragile as paper. She means nothing."
But the words rang hollow.
Because beneath the anger, beneath the jealousy, beneath the oath-chains and the cage, he could not shake the way her presence had unsettled him. The way she had drawn his eyes again and again, when he should have looked away.
And he hated himself for it.
In the darkness, Xyren sank back against the bars, letting them bite into his spine. His thoughts tangled into knots he could not untie.
He swore he would not think of her. Not tonight. Not ever.
But when his eyes drifted shut, the last thing he saw was her face, glowing beneath the veins of the Tree of Life.
---