Chapter 3
“I’m glad I found her, Yereka Ha.”
The noblewoman who had brought me here seemed delighted.
“Lady Widman. I will not forget this kindness.”
“Think nothing of it. The honor of finding the heir to the West is more than enough. Yereka Ha.”
As if her duty was now complete, the noblewoman stepped back. Just what was going on between them? I felt excluded from this conversation. I needed to understand something—anything—to either run or beg.
But my confusion was nothing compared to that of this noble girl. The child was trembling like she was being punished. Of course, that was something only I noticed after stealing a glance at her hands.
“Iyara.”
A hand gripped my shoulder and pulled back my robe. Blonde hair like theirs, and green eyes were revealed. But mine were duller than theirs.
“This is your mother, Iyara.”
I couldn’t even part my lips.
“Father… if you say it like that…”
The red-haired noblewoman looked more pained than angry. The atmosphere, the words, the people—everything felt surreal, like it wasn’t real. Either these pitiful nobles were mistaken, or they had gone mad.
“Perhaps you’ve misunderstood something.”
My throat, long unused, produced a dry voice. When I spoke, the old man laughed brightly.
“Your voice is exactly like your grandmother’s!”
His laughter was hearty. The majesty I had first sensed from him had flown away on wings. The two before me wore expressions of despair, while the old man beside them hummed a cheerful tune.
The red-haired noblewoman, who seemed the most composed, spoke.
“The woman who claims to be this child’s mother—”
Her gaze shifted to the side. The noblewoman who had brought me here bowed her knees once more.
“I heard she died during Yere Ha’s childhood, but we intend to send someone to investigate further.”
“If she’s alive—”
Before the sentence could even finish, the red-haired noblewoman parted her lips.
“If she’s alive, bring her to me—without so much as a scratch on her nails or toes.”
She had a temperament sharper than anyone else in the room. A skill for freezing the air around her. Silence followed her words. Only the cheerful old man pulled me forward.
“Iyara.”
A girl as tall as me lifted her head. Our eyes met. Hers looked like they would spill tears at the slightest touch.
“Sandora, Randa.”
Then, the red-haired noblewoman muttered something under her breath. I looked up at her, but she refused to meet my gaze. Her eyes, deliberately fixed on some distant point, were tinged with red.
As if she could bear it no longer, the noblewoman turned and walked away. The old man beside me sighed.
“It’s not your fault, Sandora.”
The girl named Sandora lowered her head.
“Iyara.”
I looked up at the old man. These people were making a terrible mistake. Once the truth came out, wouldn’t it be my head that rolled?
But whether he sensed my worry or not, the white-haired old man changed the subject.
“Just because she doesn’t hug you and cry doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”
“Love?”
I made a face like I’d bitten into tea dregs. Love? As if I’d chew on grass for something like that.
At that moment, I found it all bizarre—the retreating figure of the mother, Sandora standing frozen, and the grandfather smiling as if painted. More than the idea that these people were my family, more than the fact that this girl was connected to me, I was drowning in the thought that this was all a mistake, that I’d be stripped bare and cast out. That was what terrified me most. That I’d be punished. That I’d be hurt.
“What if I’m not her? Then this isn’t my fault, right?”
The old hand patting my back stilled. We exchanged a look. I wanted confirmation from the gentlest-seeming person here.
“Iyara.”
“Yes?”
“Look at your feet.”
I lowered my head. In this place paved entirely with pale yellow stones, only the ones beneath my feet were orange.
“The walls welcome you. How could you not be our child?”
The noblewoman beside me and the girl in front of me stood on yellow stones. Only the old man and I stood on orange. Warmth seeped between my rain-damp toes. The light warming my soaked body, the hand patting me as if to reassure, Sandora’s eyes wavering between tears and resolve.
That day was the first time I saw light inside the dome.
* * *
From dawn, they fussed over me like dusting off an old rug. They scrubbed every crevice of my teeth with soft cloth, lathered my hair in white foam, and scoured my elbows raw—apparently, that’s where the grime clung hardest. They made me blow my nose like a child while one woman circled behind to comb through my hair. Just as my body began to relax in the warm water, icy droplets suddenly trickled down my scalp—for supple skin, they said.
Drying me off, too, was their prerogative. I stood arms outstretched, passive, as they wrung out the moisture and rubbed me down with linen. Once satisfied, they drizzled fragrant oil over my head. “Close your eyes tight,” they ordered, then resumed the tedious ritual of squeezing out dampness.
“Yere Ha. You must’ve been uncomfortable all night without a proper bed.”
These people knew nothing of discomfort. I, who’d spent a lifetime grinding my hips against hard floors, nearly laughed. Was this a veiled jab, or genuine concern? I couldn’t tell.
I scratched my itchy nose. Instantly, the woman combing my hair seized my wrist.
“Let me do that for you.”
Seemed they were the ones who’d slept wrong. I arched my back like a slug evading her fingers.
“You’ll scratch my nose for me?”
They burst into laughter when I stared as if she were ill.
“It’s our duty. So Yere Ha needn’t lift a finger.”
“Tch.”
“Yes! Just like that—scold us, Yere Ha.”
They smeared sticky balm over my chapped lips. Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, I breathed in floral sweetness as hands braided my hair.
“Awake now?”
By the time I fully woke, someone was wiping drool from my chin—meaning they’d been doing this before I even stirred. Six of them had just been standing there, watching me sleep.
“It was almost time to wake you. Yere Ha must have sharp instincts.”
They’d been sweet-talking me like this since last night’s bath. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if they shed tears over me merely relieving myself on schedule. Awkwardly, I shuffled forward.
The stiffened ribs of my skirt scraped like dried reeds with every step, the sound a brittle counterpoint to the hush of the corridor. Lace edging—supposedly delicate—grazed my wrists like nettles, each thread a tiny barb. I itched everywhere, but when I dragged my nails over my calf mid-step, the six women trailing me never uttered a word, only firmly directing my path.
To the right, Yere Ha.
Turn left here, Yere Ha.
As if I had a choice. I descended stairs when told, pivoted when ordered. They didn’t comment when I hitched up my skirts, but whenever someone approached, they stepped ahead to shield me.
“Yere Ha.”
At the corridor’s end stood a single door. The woman before it bowed and opened it for me. Even tasks I could’ve handled alone were taken from me. Should I marvel at this, or click my tongue at the extravagance?
Yet inside, what greeted me was far more delightful than people—my eyes locked onto the spread across the table. The sheen of the dishes, the aromas curling in the air, twisted my stomach into knots.
At the table sat the girl named Sandora, and before her, those called Mother and Grandfather. I slid wordlessly into the empty seat beside Sandora.
I was starving. Where I came from, children were always hungry, and hungry children saw nothing but food. If a scrap was thrown, we pounced like hyenas. Survival meant eating, even if it made you wretched.
“Iyara. Did you sleep well?”
I didn’t register who spoke. When food was in sight, my hands moved first. I tore into what looked like a bird’s leg, shoved it into my mouth, then lifted the bowl of thin soup straight to my lips, gulping it down. Between chewing sweet, tender flesh, I grabbed a fish head—no idea what kind, or how it tasted. Into the mouth, chew, swallow.
As my molars ground the fish to pulp, I ripped into the bird’s sinewy back. Barely chewing, I swallowed, then seized a slab of brown-roasted meat with both hands. Mid-bite, I realized the room had gone silent.
Their faces were something I’d never seen before—more despairing than kids caught scaling walls at noon. The grandfather’s nose wrinkled; the mother froze, a handkerchief half-raised.
It wasn’t funny, but I laughed anyway. A snicker escaped, and the meat tumbled from my mouth. I scrambled to pick it up and stuff it back in.
“Ha… haha… hahaha.”
An identical laugh rang out. The mother. And now that I looked, the swarm of attendants around the table had vanished.
“Father.”
The noblewoman’s laughter faded as she tilted her head, ever so slightly.
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