Chapter 9
The door sealed behind her with a final whisper, and for the first time since her abduction—however long ago that truly was—Morgan found herself alone.
She stood in the center of the chamber, breath still uneven from everything that had happened. The silence felt strange, almost reverent, as though the room itself were holding still alongside her. Slowly, she turned, taking in the space that was now—apparently—hers.
The room was… astonishing.
It was more luxurious, more commanding, and more meticulously crafted than any billionaire’s mansion she had ever stepped foot in.
And she had seen many of them. Her father’s world had introduced her early to homes that were more showcases than shelters: cliffside estates in Malibu, glass penthouses hovering above Singapore’s skyline, Swiss compounds carved into mountainsides.
Those homes had been extravagant, curated down to the last art piece.
Yet none of them felt like this.
This chamber surpassed them in both opulence and power.
Stone and metal formed every surface, but the space was softened by warmth in ways that took her by surprise.
The floor was a dark volcanic stone polished to a muted sheen, layered with thick, deep-colored rugs.
The walls—massive slabs of smooth, dark rock—were traced with thin, embedded veins of violet energy that pulsed gently, like the slow heartbeat of some ancient creature.
Overhead, a canopy of diffused amber illumination cast a warm glow that softened the hard materials without diminishing their presence.
A bed stood on a raised platform at the room’s center—large, impossibly plush, dressed in silks that shifted with each breath of air.
Seating alcoves curved out from the stone walls, piled with cushions so soft they seemed unreal.
Tables made of obsidian metal stood like pieces of sculpture, and delicately shaped crystal objects refracted the warm light in quiet, hypnotic patterns.
The room was still clearly part of a fortress—everything here held weight, permanence, and an undercurrent of danger—but it had been softened, subtly and deliberately. For her.
She pressed a hand lightly to her chest and exhaled. How did I get here?
Her thoughts drifted backward, unbidden.
First, the Majarin ship—smooth, organic, alive somehow.
She had woken there, confused and terrified, only to be placed in surprisingly comfortable quarters.
They had given her clothing that felt like silk and food that resembled Earth meals just enough to be recognizable—bread-like, stew-like, fruit-like—but with flavors she couldn’t place. Not quite familiar, but good.
Then the Marak had appeared.
His presence alone had filled the room like gravity. He’d handed her the translator—a small, smooth silver stone that fit in her palm like it had been made for her hand.
So you can communicate, he’d said.
And then, without explanation, he had left her to whatever fate was now spiraling around her.
Time passed. She had no idea how much. Without sunrise or clocks or any sense of day, she lost track completely. Hours, days—maybe longer. She wondered what her family must be thinking. What her father must be saying about her disappearance.
He would be furious.
Humiliated.
Scrambling his surveillance network, demanding answers.
A thin, sharp strand of satisfaction pricked her.
Let him think I outmaneuvered them. Let him believe I finally slipped from his control.
Her mother would worry. Elise would speculate. Daniel would likely draft crisis-management memos. But none of them—not one—would have guessed the truth.
She was not on Earth anymore.
Her memories snagged on the moment the Majarin transferred her to the new aliens—the Vykan.
Their ship was nothing like the Majarin vessel.
Gone were the organic curves and gentle light.
The Vykan craft was metal and geometry, smooth seams and reinforced alloys, silent as a predator.
Its movement had felt different too—precise, powerful, controlled.
They had given her fresh silks to wear, sumptuous slippers, and even braided her hair with ritual care. Their attendants never touched her roughly. Everything was meticulous and measured. She was pampered, but also… contained.
And then… the descent had happened.
She hadn’t seen the outside—no windows, no viewports—but she’d felt it.
The drop. The shift. The sinking pressure in her stomach.
They’d strapped her into a tall chair as the ship lowered through some thick, dense atmosphere.
Her heart had pounded so hard she thought she might faint.
She had swallowed dryly, trying not to panic.
Then they landed.
They’d brought her out into mist-choked air, the world around her barely visible. A fortress loomed in the fog—dark stone, angular, massive. A structure built not for beauty, but for dominance and survival.
And now… she was here.
Back in the present, Morgan tilted her head as a sound drifted through the air—water, flowing somewhere nearby. She followed it across the room, her slippers whispering over stone and rug, and pushed aside a sheer black curtain.
A small enclosed garden lay behind the curtain—lush, glowing faintly in the warm, misty air.
The foliage was thick and lush, rising in gentle arcs, veins of pale light threading through each plant.
A shallow pool curved along the back wall, water spilling over carved stone in a slow, soothing stream.
It was more beautiful than any rooftop botanical garden she had seen in New York or Singapore, more serene than Kyoto’s private courtyards, more atmospheric than the vertical gardens billionaires commissioned to impress investors.
This wasn’t a display.
This was a sanctuary.
Stone tiles warmed her feet. The air carried a floral scent that made her chest loosen. The sound of the water trickling over the stone soothed the edges of her fear.
She stood there in the stillness, absorbing it all.
She wasn’t on Earth anymore, and she had no idea what her future looked like.
She didn’t even know the name of the being who supposedly owned her now.
But this room… this garden… had been specifically prepared for her.
And that knowledge sent a shiver down her spine—part relief, part dread, and something far more complicated than either.
Morgan stepped farther into the garden, letting the warm mist brush her skin. For a moment, she imagined she was alone—truly alone—and something inside her loosened. The water’s soft trickle filled the quiet.
Then the hairs on her arms lifted.
A prickle ran down her spine: a sudden, undeniable awareness. Someone was behind her.
Slowly, she turned.
An alien stood at the threshold to the garden—one she hadn’t heard enter, hadn’t sensed until she was already there.
She was tall, slender, with the same smooth, seamless skin she remembered from the first attendants who’d guided her through the Vykan vessel.
Her limbs were long, elegant, moving with fluid precision.
Her eyes were black and glossy, large enough to reflect the violet glow of the wall behind her.
Straight hair—dark as obsidian—fell to her waist, shifting like water when she moved.
Something in the gentle arch of the cheekbones, the slighter curve of her shape, and something in her posture made Morgan think she was female. She didn’t know why. The thought came instinctively, the same way it had with the first Majarin attendant.
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 expression was 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.
The word tradition sent a shiver racing up Morgan’s spine.
“I don’t know what that means,” she whispered.
Raeska regarded her for a long moment, as though deciding how much a human could comprehend.
You will be bathed, the stone translated gently, dressed, and calmed. It is important you do not meet the Vykan in distress.
Calmed.
As though she were something fragile. Something delicate.
Something that might break.
Morgan felt a tremble run through her fingers.
Her mouth tried to form words—objections, questions, anything—but nothing came.
Raeska waited patiently.
Morgan forced in a breath, her voice shaking. “And if I’m… not calm?”
The alien’s head tilted again, eyes soft but inscrutable.
Then I will assist you until you are.
A warmth spread through Morgan’s chest—fear, disbelief, and something sharp that she couldn’t name.
“The Vykan,” she repeated quietly, almost to herself. The word felt heavy now. Final.
Raeska nodded once.
He is expecting you.