This was her room.Herplace in this world.
She stood in the center of it, wrapped in fabrics chosen by creatures she still didn’t understand, prepared for a meeting she could not imagine, claimed by someone she had not yet seen with her own eyes.
Her heart beat hard, pulsing beneath the dark fabric like it wanted to escape.
You chose not to fight,she reminded herself.You chose to see where this goes.
It was a small choice, perhaps her only one.
But it was hers.
She lowered herself slowly onto one of the cushioned seats, her hands folded in her lap, her breath uneven but steadier than before. Time passed in a way she could not measure—minutes or hours, she had no idea.
And all the while, one thought circled quietly through her mind:
What do I look like now? Who do I appear to be to these beings?
Anticipation curled through her chest in a tight, restless coil.
When the soft chime finally sounded, and the door opened again, she startled—heart leaping into her throat—only to see another attendant carrying a tray.
For a moment, she thought she might collapse in relief.
CHAPTER 11
Morgan looked down at herself—the deep charcoal underdress, the black overdress with its violet embroidery, the dark metal belt resting cool against her waist. She felt like a prop in an elaborate ritual, dressed for a part she didn’t know the script for.
Relax,she thought dryly.Sure. Easy.
She sat, more out of reflex than intention, lowering herself onto one of the cushioned seats. The fabric welcomed her with a softness that felt unreal.
A soft tone sounded—a chime so delicate she wasn’t sure she’d truly heard it. The door slid open, and another attendant entered. This one was shorter than Raeska, slightly broader through the upper body, with long silver-black hair bound high at the back of her head. Her eyes were the same deep, glimmering black.
She carried a tray.
Morgan tensed instinctively. The attendant did not speak—not even through the translator stone. She merely inclined her head, placed the tray on the low table in front of Morgan, and stepped back with a curiosity that felt almost childlike.
Morgan managed a faint, grateful nod. The alien bowed once more and departed, the door sealing behind her.
Morgan stared at the tray.
The food was beautiful—strange, but beautiful. Jewelled slices of fruit that glowed faintly from within, their pale flesh flecked with violet threads. Soft, warm breads with crisp edges and fragrant steam rising from their layers. A small bowl of something that looked like honey but darker, thicker, with a scent that reminded her faintly of chocolate and something floral. And a cup of tea, its steam curling upward with a scent she couldn’t quite place—herbal, sweet, and calming.
She hesitated.
It can’t be any worse than what the Majarin fed you. And you’re not dead yet.
She reached for one of the glowing fruits, the flesh cool beneath her fingertips. The first bite melted on her tongue—sweet, bright, slightly tart, with a texture somewhere between pear and peach. Her shoulders loosened a fraction.
The bread was equally surprising—soft inside, crisp outside, subtly spiced.
She lingered over the honey-like substance last, dipping a piece of bread into it. It clung to her fingers, thick and warm. When she tasted it, the flavor bloomed across her tongue—rich like dark chocolate, sweet like wildflower honey, with an undertone she couldn’t name but instantly wanted again.
The tea washed it all down with gentle warmth.
For a moment—just a moment—she allowed herself to feel something close to grounded. Not safe, not comfortable, certainly not relaxed, but grounded enough to remember that she still inhabited her own body and her own mind.
She leaned back in the cushioned seat, the feast half-finished on the tray before her.
