Elysia
Chapter 9: Lessons in Starlight

The first light of dawn was not what woke Elina. In the Aurora Palace, there was no harsh sun, only a soft, perpetual twilight that brightened and dimmed in rhythm with the world outside. What woke her was the profound silence, a quiet so deep and complete that it felt like a soft blanket. It was the absence of noise—the absence of the clanging morning bell, the coughing of other children, the creaking floorboards of the Greyhaven Orphanage—that gently pulled her from sleep.

She opened her eyes, blinking. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought it had all been a dream. She expected to see the grimy, cracked ceiling of the dormitory. Instead, she saw a swirling canopy of violet and blue crystal, with gentle stars winking down at her. She was lying on something impossibly soft, a bed that felt like a solid cloud. A clean, lavender-colored dress was neatly folded on a chair beside the bed.

It was real. All of it.

Slowly, she slid off the bed, her bare feet sinking slightly into a rug that felt like thick moss. She padded over to the large window. The world outside was bathed in the golden light of morning. The forest was alive with birdsong, and she could see the distant figures of the alliance's army packing up their camp, a silent, hurried retreat. They were leaving. She was staying.

Her gaze fell upon the small desk in the corner. Upon it lay the clean sheets of paper and the sticks of charcoal. An invitation. In her old life, paper was a precious commodity, used only by the matron for record-keeping. The idea that she could simply take a piece and draw on it, for no reason other than her own desire, was a freedom so vast it was almost frightening.

"It is time to eat."

The voice was soft, melodic, and came from directly behind her. Elina jumped, spinning around with a small squeak. Elysia was standing in the middle of the room, her presence as natural and unobtrusive as the air itself. She hadn't heard her enter. She hadn't heard a door open. She was simply… there.

"I-I'm sorry," Elina stammered, bowing her head.

"For what?" Elysia asked, her tone one of genuine, mild curiosity. "You have done nothing. Come. Sustenance is a requirement."

Without waiting for a reply, Elysia turned and glided out of the room. Elina hesitated for only a second before scrambling to follow the magnificent, intimidating figure.

Breakfast was served in a small, sun-drenched atrium overlooking a garden where flowers made of pure light bloomed and faded in a slow, rhythmic pulse. A table of smooth, white crystal stood with two chairs, and on it, another simple, perfect meal materialized from thin air. There was a bowl of oatmeal with fresh berries and nuts, a pitcher of juice that seemed to sparkle, and warm, soft bread.

Elysia did not eat. She sat opposite Elina, her chin resting on her hand, observing the child with the detached focus of a researcher. As Elina ate—hesitantly at first, then with more confidence—Elysia began her assessment.

"Can you read?" she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet chirping of the light-flowers.

Elina, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth, froze. She shook her head, feeling a familiar shame. "A-a little. Simple words."

"And writing?"

Another shake of the head. "No, My Lady."

"What do you know of the world? Of its kingdoms, its history, its magic?"

Elina looked down at her lap. "Only… stories. About kings and monsters. The matron said the world outside the city was dangerous." Her world, her knowledge, was confined to the four crumbling walls of Greyhaven.

Elysia processed this information in silence. Her expression remained unreadable, but her mind was working with cold efficiency. Total ignorance, she concluded. In some ways, ignorance is a form of peace. But it is also a vulnerability. An uninformed attendant is an inefficient one. An attendant who cannot read a note I leave for her, or identify a person of importance, would be a disturbance. This must be corrected.

Her motivation was not born of a desire to empower the child for the child's own sake. It was born from the desire to perfect her own environment. A knowledgeable companion would be a quiet companion. A self-sufficient companion would require less direct management. It was, in its own way, the ultimate form of laziness.

"Finish your meal," Elysia said, her decision made. "Your first lesson will begin shortly."

Elina nodded, quickly finishing her bread, her heart thumping with a mixture of anxiety and a strange, new excitement.

Elysia led Elina not to a study, but to a part of the palace that took her breath away all over again. It was a vast, circular chamber with a domed ceiling so high it seemed to be a separate sky. There were no bookshelves, no dusty tomes, no scent of old paper. The walls themselves were dark, like the night sky, and arranged upon them in beautiful, spiraling constellations were thousands of softly glowing crystals and orbs of light. In the very center of the room, a larger, brighter sphere of white light pulsed gently, bathing the entire chamber in a serene glow.

"This is the library," Elysia announced into the silence.

"But… where are the books?" Elina whispered, her fox ears twitching in confusion.

"A book is merely a container for a story or an idea," Elysia explained, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "Paper and ink are a primitive, inefficient container. This library uses a more direct method."

She glided towards one of the constellations on the wall and plucked a small, faintly glowing blue orb from the air. It pulsed with a gentle warmth in her hand. "This," she said, holding it out to Elina, "is a book."

Hesitantly, Elina reached out and took the orb. It felt smooth and warm, like her own grey stone, but it vibrated with a faint energy. The moment her fingers closed around it, the large white sphere in the center of the room flared brightly.

Light streamed from the sphere, coalescing in the air before them. It shimmered and solidified, forming living, three-dimensional figures made of light. A forest grew around them, and a tall, majestic tree rose in the center. It was a perfect, holographic re-creation of a story.

Elina gasped. She watched, mesmerized, as a figure of a brave, young knight made of light approached the tree. When he spoke, his voice was clear and heroic, and as he said his words, the words themselves appeared in the air beside him, written in glowing, simple script.

This was the story Elysia had chosen. A simple fairy tale. The very same one she had read an eternity ago, back when she was a boy named Han Ji-hoon, about a knight who sought the blessing of the World Tree. It was the first, unconscious piece of her forgotten self that she had ever shared.

"Look at the words," Elysia's voice instructed from beside her. "Do not try to read them. Just… look at them."

Elina focused on the glowing word Tree that floated next to the holographic image. As she did, a strange, warm sensation filled her mind, and a window she had never seen before popped into her vision.

[You have learned the word: Tree]

[You have learned the concept: A large, wooden plant with branches and leaves]

She blinked, startled. She looked at another word, Knight.

[You have learned the word: Knight]

[You have learned the concept: A noble warrior who serves a ruler]

It was effortless. The world's System, which Elysia now commanded with an unconscious thought, was directly feeding the knowledge into Elina's mind. There was no tedious memorization, no struggling with phonetics. There was only pure, instantaneous understanding. Learning was not a chore; it was magic.

For over an hour, they stood there, watching the story unfold. Elina was completely captivated, her eyes wide, absorbing every word and every image. She learned about kings and queens, about courage and betrayal, about magic and monsters.

Elysia stood beside her, watching not the story, but the child. She watched the genuine, unadulterated wonder on Elina's face. She saw the way her eyes lit up when the knight succeeded, and the small frown when he was in peril. And in the deepest, most ancient corner of her soul, something stirred. A faint, dusty echo of an emotion she hadn't felt in millennia. It was the memory of joy, the simple, pure joy of being lost in a good story. It wasn't enough to make her smile, not yet. But it was a tiny crack in the glacier of her indifference.

When the story ended and the holograms faded back into light, Elysia gently took the orb from Elina's hand and placed it back in its constellation.

"You may come here whenever you wish," she said. "Touch any orb that calls to you. It is the most efficient way to learn about this world."

She then turned to leave. At the doorway, she stopped. "I have one more task for you today, Elina," she said.

Elina looked up at her, ready for any command.

"Explore the palace. Familiarize yourself with your new home. But do not leave the grounds without my permission." It was a boundary, but within that boundary lay a freedom larger than any Elina had ever known.

With that, Elysia was gone, leaving Elina alone in the magnificent library. Elina looked at the spot where the story had been, then at the thousands of other glowing orbs, each a new world waiting to be opened. Her own world, which had once been the size of a single, grey orphanage, had just expanded to the size of a universe.

For the first time since her arrival, a true, genuine smile spread across her face, making her whiskers twitch. She clutched her grey stone in one hand and reached out with the other, her fingers brushing against another glowing orb. She didn't know if she was a prisoner or a guest, a price or a prize. But for the first time in her life, she felt an overwhelming sense of excitement for what tomorrow would bring.