Chapter Five: Behind Closed Doors
1040 Words
Lilly didn’t know how many days had passed. Time had become meaningless—reduced to the rhythm of meals delivered silently and the golden light that bled through the tall windows in her room.
The room itself was a strange contradiction. Every inch of it screamed elegance: smooth marble floors, velvet drapes in rich emerald and gold, carved mahogany furniture, and floating crystal lights that hovered near the high ceiling like quiet stars. The bed was big enough for three people, its canopy embroidered with silver thread. The window overlooked some kind of inner courtyard, filled with glowing trees and silver birds that didn’t seem quite real. Everything was beautiful. Everything was wrong.
The door, always locked, had become her only enemy.
She had tried everything—shouting, pleading, demanding—but her voice might as well have been smoke in the wind. The guards outside never spoke, never moved. They stood like statues, in dark armor with a dragon emblem on the chest—two dragons coiled around one another in a circle.
No one told her what that symbol meant.
No one told her anything.
Lilly stood near the door now, her ear pressed to it. She could hear the low murmur of voices beyond it, muffled by stone and wood. She didn't recognize the language, but something about it felt... familiar. Like the whisper of a dream she’d had a thousand times but could never fully remember.
She backed away from the door and crossed the room, pacing like a caged animal. The dress she wore—deep green, the color of pine needles—flowed around her legs with every step. It was soft, tailored perfectly, and completely foreign. She missed her jeans. She missed her hoodie. She missed knowing who she was and what she was supposed to be doing.
Each day she tried to piece things together—watching, listening, learning. She kept mental notes of everything: the way the guards rotated every eight hours, how one of them limped slightly, how another always clenched his jaw when the door opened. She memorized the layout of her room, checked every seam in the furniture, knocked on the walls for hollow spots. Nothing gave.
And still, they brought her food.
Three times a day, like clockwork, a tray would arrive—carried in by a servant who never spoke, always flanked by two silent guards. The food was strange but delicious: bright purple fruit that fizzed on her tongue, meat that melted in her mouth, golden bread that never seemed to grow stale. The water tasted clean and pure, like it had never touched earth.
Magic, she was beginning to realize, was everywhere here. In the air, the food, the very walls of her room.
And it terrified her.
That morning, something changed.
She didn’t notice it right away, but it was there—a shift in the air, like a ripple across still water. She sat on the window seat with her knees pulled up, absently braiding her long blonde hair as she stared into the courtyard. The trees glowed a little brighter. The light outside had a shimmer to it. Even the birds looked on edge, their wings twitching like they sensed something coming.
She stood suddenly and faced the door.
Again, she knocked. Firmer this time.
“I know someone can hear me,” she said, her voice steady. I want to speak to whoever is in charge. Please. I just want to understand.
Nothing.
She leaned her forehead against the wood and closed her eyes. Her pale blue eyes—clear as sea glass—were beginning to dull. The helplessness was creeping in like fog, slow and steady.
“I’m not going to stop asking,” she whispered. “Even if no one listens.”
She took a breath and stepped back. The magic lights overhead dimmed slightly, as if in sympathy. She forced herself to stay busy—tidying the room, brushing her hair, flipping through the strange books left for her on the shelves. They were written in that same dream-language. She couldn’t read them, but the shapes of the letters sparked something in her chest. Recognition. Like she should know what they meant.
Maybe she was going mad.
Maybe this was what madness looked like.
Night fell slowly, turning the courtyard outside into a sea of shadow and silver light. The floating lanterns glowed faintly above her, casting a warm light over her bed. She couldn’t sleep.
She lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Every muscle in her body was tense. Her thoughts refused to slow down, racing in circles like a trapped bird. Her stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the deep, aching fear that this was it. That no one was coming for her. That maybe… maybe she didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. Intentional.
Her breath caught.
The lock on the door clicked.
She sat upright, heart pounding in her chest. The handle turned, slow and smooth. Her eyes locked onto it, unmoving.
The door creaked open.
And in the doorway stood a man she had never seen before.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark tunic lined with bronze detailing. His long brown hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck, and he moved with a quiet confidence, like he didn’t need to speak to be heard.
But it was his eyes that made her forget how to breathe.
Dark eyes—deep, intense, like fire smoldering behind them.
They locked onto hers, and for a moment, the room itself seemed to be still.
He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
Lilly stood frozen near the bed, uncertain if she should move, speak, scream.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his voice low and rich, like thunder echoing over distant mountains.
She stared at him. “Who... who are you?”
He didn’t answer right away. He simply looked at her like he was trying to solve a puzzle he already knew the shape of.
And then, after a moment, a faint smile curved his lips—one that didn’t quite reach those fire-lit eyes.
- Writer
