Chapter Three - Lira
The Silk Root Chamber – Sublevel B, Dantès Estate
I wake with a jolt.
A stinging inhale claws through my lungs, and I sit up fast, gasping, shaking, drenched in sweat. My body feels wrong—slow, heavy, like my blood’s been laced with concrete.
“What the fuck,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, brittle, not mine.
I blink into the light. The room is soft, glowing, and quiet. Everything is expensive. Pale velvet. Rose-gold lamps. A rug so thick it swallows sound. The air smells like lavender and lemon balm. There are no beeping machines, no IVs, no industrial lighting.
This isn’t a hospital.
This isn’t my apartment.
This isn’t anywhere I know.
I push the sheets off and stumble out of bed, bare feet hitting warm wood. My legs tremble. My knees almost buckle. I grab the bedpost to stay upright. My heart is pounding like I ran here, but I didn’t run. I was home. I—
I was home.
I was home. I came back from work. The lights weren’t working. I—
Oh god.
I throw myself at the door.
I twist the knob. Yank it. Slam my shoulder into the wood. It doesn’t budge. There’s no sound behind it. No footsteps. No traffic. No city. Just calm.
I spin around. There’s no windows. None. Just a smooth wall where glass should be. The walls are painted the color of calm—the kind of calm you use to cage wild things.
My throat closes.
I run to the far side of the room. Look up.
Air vents.
Slim, recessed, just above the crown molding. Maybe two. I drag the desk chair over, clamber onto the bed and then onto the chair, fingers scrambling for the vent.
I try to wedge my fingers between the slats. They don’t budge. I push harder. My nails scrape metal. Pain blooms in my wrist and I hiss, trying to breathe through it.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here.
My pulse is stuttering now. My chest tightens. I can’t cry. I can’t. If I cry, I’ll unravel.
Suddenly— a click.
The door opens behind me.
I freeze.
A figure steps inside.
An elderly woman. Silver hair in a braided bun. Plain dress, perfectly pressed. Her hands are empty. Her expression is neutral.
I don’t move.
I’m still standing on the bed. Still balanced on the chair.
“Don’t bother,” the woman says, her voice soft but absolute. “The vents are sealed. You can’t get in.”
I whip around on the bed, heart punching my ribs.
“Now come on,” she adds, like she’s asking me to set the table. “Let’s get you clean.”
I swallow, throat raw.
“Who... who are you?” I ask, voice cracked, half air.
She tilts her head, like the question bores her. “Does that matter?”
I take a shaky step back, foot pressing into the velvet throw.
“I don’t know who you are or what this is,” I say, louder now, panic turning my voice brittle. “But let me go. Now. Or I’ll call the police.”
The woman whistles. Like she’s calling a dog.
The door opens and a man steps in.
He’s tall. Dressed in black. His uniform has no name, no logo—just lines and a shoulder patch I don’t recognize. His hand rests on the strap of a sleek, matte-black rifle.
I go still.
“I can either wash you,” the woman says gently, “or he can do the honors.”
She smiles at me—soft, maternal. “But either way, child, you’re getting clean.”
I can’t breathe. My feet are rooted. My hands shake.
The guard doesn’t move, but he watches me like I’m already halfway to the floor.
“I’ll—I’ll do it,” I whisper.
“Good girl.”
She turns to him with a nod. “Out.”
He leaves without a sound.
The moment the door clicks shut, the air shifts. I let myself exhale.
“Step down now,” the woman says. “No need to act like a bird in a storm.”
I obey. Not because I trust her. Because I don’t know what else to do.
She leads me to a panel at the far wall. I hadn’t noticed it earlier—blended into the paint, no visible seams. She presses a button. A door sighs open.
It’s a bathroom.
No. It’s a sanctuary.
Cream-colored porcelain. Inset golden lights. Heated floors. A tub the size of a small pool sunk into the marble like a sacred relic. The steam is already curling at the edges, like it’s been waiting for me.
My jaw tightens.
“Your eyes could pop out their sockets, child,” the woman says, chuckling. “Now get in.”
My eyes stay fixed on the tub. Steam curls from the surface like it’s breathing.
This isn’t real.
It can’t be.
But the marble is warm beneath my feet. The humidity curls my hair at the edges. The ache in my arms is real.
My fingers twitch.
I reach down slowly and pull my top over my head.
I peel it off my skin, damp with sweat, sticky under the arms. It drops to the floor with a whisper.
I don’t look at the woman, but I can feel her watching me. I step into the tub.
The heat swallows my calves first, then my thighs. By the time I sink fully beneath the water, it’s like I’ve slipped into someone else’s skin.
My chest hitches. I try to calm it. The water smells like rose and lemon. There’s nothing safe about this.
The woman hands me the soap without a word.
I take it.
“Where is this?” I ask, voice shaking. “Where am I?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she walks over to the vanity and begins sorting folded towels like we’re just… two women sharing space.
I glance down at the soap. My fingers are trembling.
The old woman sighs.
“I can’t tell you, child,” she says, her back still to me. “Because I am not allowed to tell you much.”
She turns then, meets my eyes.
“But I can tell you this: you might be here for a while. Either that… or you’re going to die pretty quickly.”
I laugh.
Or try to.
It comes out cracked. Hysterical. “What?”
I wait for her to chuckle. To wink. To say just kidding or lighten up, girl.
But she doesn’t.
Her face stays perfectly still.
My mouth goes dry.
I swallow hard. “Where... where is here?”
Her lips press into a line, then part.
“Melbourne.”
The old woman’s fingers are surprisingly gentle as she lathers my hair.
She works in slow circles, humming something wordless under her breath. I sit stiffly in the tub, shoulders hunched, water sloshing gently around me as I try not to cry.
I don’t know what’s worse, that she’s touching me like I’m her child, or that I’m letting her.
She rinses the soap with a silver-handled cup and hands me a towel. I wrap it around myself awkwardly, skin prickling as I step out of the bath.
She pats me down with a second towel—impersonal, mechanical. Like drying off a body that doesn’t belong to her. Like I’m a task. A responsibility.
I say nothing.
She opens a closet tucked into the marble wall, and from inside, she pulls a dress.
It’s a cream-colored silk slip, soft and simple, with thin straps and a low back. “Put it on,” she says.
I take it from her and step into it slowly, letting the cool fabric slip over my skin like an apology.
She adjusts one strap at my shoulder and steps back with a nod. “Much better.”
Then, as if she hasn’t been watching me swallow down fear for the last ten minutes, she says, “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head.
“No.”
My stomach grumbles, long and loud.
Her mouth lifts in a smile. “Thought so.”
She whistles—one short note—and the door opens silently.
A maid in pale blue steps in, pushing a tray on wheels. The lid on the silver dome gleams. Beneath it: a full meal. Roasted chicken glazed in herbs, soft bread, thin soup in a porcelain bowl, a glass of something red—juice or wine, I can’t tell. It smells rich. It smells unreal.
I hesitate.
Then hunger takes over.
I’m at the table before I know it, sitting down fast, grabbing the utensils. My hands shake as I cut into the food and bring it to my mouth. The first bite makes me dizzy.
I eat. She watches me the whole time.
Not unkindly.
Not cruelly.
Just… as if this is normal.
As if I belong here.
When I finish, I set the fork down and sit back slowly. My stomach is full for the first time in days. My body is tired.
She smiles at me like she’s proud.
“Time for your nap.”
I blink. “What?”
“It’s time to rest, child,” she says, smoothing a wrinkle from the tablecloth.
Then I hear them.
Footsteps again.
I turn my head and see them step through the door—two guards in black, both broad and silent and already moving toward me.
I stand up so fast the chair screeches back.
“What’s going on?” I say, voice rising. “What the hell is this?”
Neither of them speak.
They reach me fast. One grips my upper arm, hard. The other moves to block the door.
I yank back. “Let go of me!”
The one behind me hooks both my wrists in one hand and pulls them behind my back. I twist, trying to break free. I scream.
The woman doesn’t move.
She walks toward me with something in her hand.
A syringe.
I freeze.
“No. No—what is that? Don’t—” My voice congeals in my throat.
The needle glints in the light.
“Please,” I beg, tears spilling now. “Don’t. Don’t put that in me, please—”
The guards tighten their grip. One presses my head down toward the table.
I thrash. My shoulder screams in protest. My feet leave the floor.
“I’ll stay here! I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever you want—please, don’t—”
Her voice is calm, almost fond. “It’s just something to help you sleep, darling. You’re safe.”
The sting of the needle pierces my neck.
My scream cracks. My limbs jerk once, twice—then slow.
Everything slows.
The floor tilts.
Her face blurs.
I reach for the edge of the table, but my hand doesn’t work.
My knees fold beneath me.
The lights bleed at the edges.
My last thought is a whisper: Don’t let them make me disappear.
And then—
Dark.
The world is quiet.
Not silent—just still. Heavy with the kind of quiet that feels chosen .
I open my eyes and I’m standing barefoot on a beach.
The sky above me is peach-blushed and endless. Not quite morning. Not quite dusk. The air smells like salt and sunlight, warm on my skin, soft against my lips.
There’s no one here. Just the tide humming against the shore and the fine gold sand beneath my toes.
And then—
I see them.
Three figures in the distance.
I blink. My throat tightens. My feet move before I can think.
“Mama?”
She’s there. Dressed in that pale lilac dress she loved, the one she wore to my first solo performance. Her hair’s swept up, her eyes gentle. She’s smiling at me like nothing in the world ever hurt her.
“Papa?” I call, louder now, stumbling through the sand.
He lifts a hand in a lazy wave, grinning, shirt half unbuttoned like always, the sleeves rolled carelessly up his arms. His skin glows gold in the low sun. My heart aches.
And—
My chest caves.
“Marco,” I whisper.
My brother.
He’s leaning slightly to one side, casual, arms folded, his hair tousled and windswept like always, like he just came from diving headfirst into something dangerous and beautiful.
They’re here.
All of them.
I start to run.
Sand kicks up behind me, warm and dry. I don’t feel tired. I don’t feel pain. I just run, heart pounding not in fear but relief . They’re here. They’re all here.
And then—
Another shape.
Behind them.
Tall. Dark. Familiar in the way that makes my stomach twist.
Mico.
He steps into the light with that same look I remember—eyes soft, mouth set in something halfway between sorrow and tenderness. Like he’s holding something he doesn’t want to lose.
I cry out and launch toward him. His arms open. He holds me like he always used to. He smells like cedar and warm linen.
“I love you,” he says, voice thick, low.
And just as my lips part to say it back—
He turns to dust.
Not violently. Not like an explosion.
He just fades.
Fingers first. Then shoulders. Then heart.
Ashes in the air.
“No—” My hands claw at the air, trying to catch him. My knees hit the sand, and I dig frantically, trying to find whatever’s left. Just a sleeve. Just a button. Anything.
But there’s nothing.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, voice breaking, trembling hands raking the ground. “Please—please don’t leave me.”
I turn toward the others.
“Mama—”
They’re fading too.
One by one. Gentle. Terrible.
My mother’s dress unravels into light. My father’s arms dissolve into shadow. Marco’s smile stays even as his shape turns to smoke.
I run to them.
The sand drags at my legs. My chest shatters.
“ Please! ” I scream, chasing them.
But they vanish before I get there. Right in front of me.
Gone.
I drop to my knees. The sand is hot now. Sticky. My fingers dig deep, but there’s nothing beneath it. Nothing but more sand. And the empty echo of their warmth.
“Why?” My voice is a whisper, shredded by grief.
“Why do you all leave me?”
There’s no answer.
Just wind.
And the tide, still humming.