Morgan stiffened, pulse thudding uncomfortably in her throat. She was alone here with this creature. No humans. No escape. If the alien chose to harm her, if she decided Morgan didn’t belong—Morgan had nothing. No leverage. No plan. Only fear and the thin comfort of the garden she’d barely begun to understand.
Her hand tightened reflexively at her side, brushing the pocket of her robe. The translator stone was tucked inside, warm against her fingertips. She had forgotten it was there.
The alien approached with quiet, gliding steps, her movements almost soundless against the stone. Her expressionwas unreadable, but something about her didn’t feel hostile. Observant, yes. Focused. But not aggressive.
Still, Morgan’s body remained rigid, her breath shallow.
She became suddenly aware of the clothing she wore—the garments the Majarin had given her before the transfer. A long robe of pale mist-grey silk, layered over an inner tunic that wrapped around her like warm breath. The fabric was unbelievably fine, weightless yet warm, the sleeves draping at her wrists and catching faint glimmers of silver thread when she moved. She felt at once dressed and exposed, as though the silks were both luxury and disguise.
The alien stopped a polite distance away.
When she spoke, her voice flowed in a tone that sounded like music shaped into words—but the meaning reached Morgan not through the sound itself, but through the translator stone.
Morgan of Earth,the translated voice said smoothly, layered over the alien’s lilting speech.I am Raeska. It is an honor to serve you.
Morgan swallowed, her tense shoulders hovering somewhere between fear and disbelief. Honor to serve her? Here? In a place like this?
She forced herself to breathe, though her pulse still fluttered wildly.
“Serve me?” she managed. “Why… why would you serve me?”
Raeska inclined her head, a gentle, fluid motion that made the long fall of her hair shimmer.
You have been claimed,the translator voiced calmly.And those claimed by a Vykan must be tended to. You will be guarded, guided, and provided for. This is our duty.
Morgan stared at her, the world tilting slightly under the weight of the words.
Claimed.
Vykan.
Duty.
The water continued its delicate trickle behind her, as if this were any other moment. As if her life hadn’t just been rewritten into something unrecognizable.
Raeska watched her with calm patience, as if waiting for Morgan to steady herself.
Morgan wasn’t sure she ever would.
Raeska remained perfectly still for a moment, her black eyes glimmering in the dim light. Then she lifted her hands in a gesture that was almost ritualistic—palms together, then open—as if revealing something delicate.
I have come,the translated voice murmured,to assist you. To help you prepare.
“Prepare?” Her voice came out thin, uncertain. “Prepare for… what?”
Raeska’s head tilted just enough to imply confusion that Morgan didn’t understand.
For the Vykan,the stone translated, each syllable measured and serene.
Morgan’s stomach dropped.
The garden seemed suddenly too quiet.
She swallowed, her voice barely steady. “I—I don’t understand. Prepare how?”
Raeska’s expression didn’t change. She stepped forward, her movements liquid, and gestured lightly toward the inner rooms.
You are to meet him,the translation continued.It is tradition that those claimed are made ready.
