The morning sun had not yet burned away the mist that curled along Carfein's high balconies, but Aria was already awake, staring at the ironwork that caged her room like a stubborn bird. She pressed her forehead against the cool bars, peering through the slits at the sky beyond—an endless canvas of blue and drifting white. For a moment, she let herself imagine that if she squeezed hard enough, she could slip through, catch the clouds, and vanish before anyone noticed.
Of course, she tried.
She had been trying all morning.
First the balcony. Too high, too sheer, no foothold but slick stone and air. She had leaned out until her stomach flipped, then scrambled back with a muttered curse about how humans weren't designed to fly, no matter how many stories Quarties liked to tell.
Next, the cell gate. She tested each bar, rattled them, kicked once for good measure. Nothing budged. The clang echoed down the corridor, earning her a sharp bark from a distant guard.
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, shaking out her foot. "I'm just redecorating."
Her gaze drifted toward the shelves. Books, scrolls, the damned diary pages. Knowledge was a kind of freedom too, she reminded herself, though it didn't feel much like it now.
Finally, she tried the corridor itself, waiting until a guard passed and slipping a slippered foot into the hall. She barely managed three steps before a spear crossed in front of her chest.
"Really?" she sighed, lifting her hands. "You guys don't even let me stretch my legs?"
The guard didn't answer, just scowled and jerked his chin back toward her quarters. She obeyed, dragging her feet like a sulky child. Once inside, she collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Later," she told herself. "I'll find the right crack in their perfect little prison later."
For now, she was tired of trying.
The scrape of hinges startled her. The door opened, and sunlight spilled into the room, cutting sharp lines across the floor. Aria pushed herself up, expecting another guard with bland orders. Instead, a familiar figure slipped in, flanked by one of those stone-faced escorts.
Sira.
Her presence alone softened the air. The girl's golden-brown hair caught the light like spun honey, and her easy smile seemed entirely out of place in a fortress full of suspicion.
"You look like you've been wrestling the walls again," Sira said, her voice carrying a mischievous lilt.
Aria pulled a face. "They started it."
The guard gave a grunt that might have been disapproval. Sira ignored him, gliding toward the bed and sitting on the edge. She smoothed her gown, folded her hands neatly, and leaned closer with the air of a confidante about to share secrets.
"I came to tell you something," she whispered.
Aria tilted her head, wary but curious. "Please tell me it's 'the door's wide open, run for your life.'"
Sira laughed, soft enough not to draw the guard's attention. "Not quite. But it is important. Karl is returning."
Aria blinked. "Karl?"
"You call him that? We call him Kael."
The name carried weight in Sira's voice, like the strike of a bell. Aria searched her memory, recalling scraps of overheard conversations, fragments of gossip that slipped through cracks in her captivity. Kael—Julian's eldest son. The crown's shining hope. The one who had been absent all this time.
"Returning from where?" Aria asked, suspicion curling in her tone. "Let me guess—vacation in paradise? A really long holiday?"
Sira shook her head, eyes bright with something between reverence and excitement. "No. From his journey. Every Quarty must go, when their time comes. It is tradition—older than the kingdom itself."
Aria leaned back, arms crossed. "And this tradition is… what, exactly?"
The girl's gaze flicked toward the guard, who had stationed himself near the door with his spear planted firmly in the floor. Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice further.
"They call it the Seeking. When a Quarty is grown, they must leave the safety of Skyria and wander. Not to fight, not to conquer, but to find."
"Find what?"
"The one," Sira said simply.
Aria blinked. "The one what? The one fruit tree? The one pair of shoes that finally fit?"
Sira giggled, covering her mouth. "No. The one their soul was made for. Their beloved."
Aria stared. Then, unable to stop herself, laughed. "You're serious?"
"It is no jest," Sira said, though her smile lingered. "Our lives are long, Aria. Too long to walk them alone. The Seeking binds us to another, chosen not by kings or councils, but by the threads of fate itself. Some travel decades before they find their beloved. Others never return."
"And Kael?"
"He found her," Sira whispered, as if the words themselves carried holy weight. "He found the one. And because of that, everything changes."
Aria frowned, her skepticism warring with the spark of interest curling in her chest. "Changes how?"
Sira straightened, her expression solemn now. "The king is old. His strength wanes. With Kael's return, there will be peace in Carfein. The throne will pass to him soon. His journey is proof of his worthiness."
Aria let out a low whistle. "So he goes off gallivanting, comes back with a girl, and suddenly he's king material? That's some political system you've got."
Sira swatted her arm lightly. "You mock, but it is sacred. And the whole kingdom will celebrate his return. There will be feasts, music, dances, rituals under the tree. Two nights from now. You will see."
Aria raised an eyebrow. "Will I?"
The girl smiled, tilting her head. "That is what I came to ask. Will you come?"
The words hung between them, gentle and pointed all at once.
Aria opened her mouth—then closed it again.
The guard shifted, boots scraping stone. Outside, the wind carried faint sounds of preparation: hammering wood, laughter, the rustle of banners unfurling. The kingdom itself seemed to lean toward the festival, the promise of celebration after long absence.
But Aria sat still, the question knotting in her chest, answer caught somewhere between longing and defiance.
She said nothing.
And the chapter ended there, silence holding her captive more tightly than chains.