Aarya's legs moved before her mind fully caught up—drawn by the intensity of their stares, the silent invitation in their gestures, the brush of Kiran's hand that never quite left her back. She could feel their body heat circling her like firelight, a warmth both foreign and disturbingly familiar.
The eldest, the one who had called her Devi, extended his hand—not to touch, but to guide. A gesture of deep-rooted reverence. His voice, still reverberating with quiet command, spoke words she couldn't understand, but her pendant hummed, deciphering slowly.
"Come with us. This land is not kind to what is soft and sacred. You will be safe in our walls."
She hesitated, just for a breath, but the pull—emotional, instinctual, almost magnetic—was too deep now. She followed.
Their journey back was strange, quiet.
The ten males formed a loose protective circle around her, like sentinels orbiting a singular, divine flame. None of them touched her. Not directly. But their energy never left her. She could feel their gazes brushing over her nape, over the curve of her shoulder, lingering on her hands that cradled the three pulsing obsidian stones. Every breath they took was slightly shallower, as though her presence made the air itself thicker.
Kiran walked closest to her. He had wrapped her in softened animal hides and braided vines, a makeshift cloak to keep her warm, and yet his large frame was tense—confused, possessive, hovering too near and yet never quite enough.
As they crossed through a dense passage of silver-leafed trees that shimmered beneath the twin moons, a jagged cliff rose ahead. It split open, revealing their home not through gates—but a living wall of stone that shifted upon their touch.
Aarya gasped.
The structure inside was a marvel.
Built into the mountain itself, their home was carved out of luminescent crystal and ancient roots that wove through the walls like arteries. Soft lights pulsed from above—living orbs that responded to their motion. The floors were smooth obsidian and the ceilings stretched endlessly, held by columns of dark stone veined with glowing blue. An aroma lingered—earthy, rich, and inexplicably… masculine.
"It's alive," Aarya whispered, her breath fogging slightly as the cool air kissed her lips.
One of the younger warriors—golden-eyed, draped in copper—turned toward her, his voice shy, "Yes. Like us, the stone was born, not built."
She stepped forward, tentative, her pendant softly translating in fragments. Each wall pulsed gently under her fingertips, almost like a living creature breathing.
They led her through chambers she couldn't yet understand—training halls, great bath chambers veiled in mist, towering libraries with glowing script running across the walls like water. It was not just a home. It was a sanctum.
A shrine.
And she? She was the deity they had unknowingly carved it for.
They stopped at a wide, circular space lined with dark pelts, a soft fire flickering at the center. There were cushions made of fur and folded cloths, and steaming bowls of some kind of herbal liquid resting nearby.
"This is the heart," said the eldest, gesturing toward the space. "Where we sleep. Where we speak. Where we eat."
Aarya turned in place, slowly. Everything around her felt wild and ancient—sacred and dangerous.
Their eyes followed her every movement.
She met their gazes one by one, and her voice came soft, nearly breaking, "Why do you all look at me like that?"
A long silence followed.
Then Kiran, in his gentle baritone, whispered, "Because you're not just one of us, little one. You're what we lost before we were even born."
Aarya didn't know how to reply to that.
Her fingers curled tightly around the stones. Her heart, once full of fear, now swelled with something else. Something wild. Something warm. Something hers.
And though she was still stranded on an alien world, surrounded by giants who barely understood her—she didn't feel alone anymore.
She felt… found.
_______________________________________
Aarya didn't sleep.
She lay curled in one of the fur-lined resting hollows at the edge of the central chamber, the fire's low crackle like a distant lullaby. Above her, a ceiling of glimmering roots moved ever so slowly—glowing faintly, like breathing stars.
The male giants—these towering beings who had brought her into their home—had kept their distance after showing her to the resting space. She hadn't known what to expect… but none of them tried to touch her, or even speak much, after that first moment. They just… watched her.
As if she were a dream. A myth. Something too sacred to get close to.
Kiran had sat closest, his massive body half-curled at the mouth of the room, alert like a watchful hound. His hand remained on his weapon, but his eyes never left her.
When she shifted under the furs, she could feel the silence shiver. It wasn't empty. It was loaded—with unspoken questions, with strange glances, with something that burned softly between them like the coals in the fire.
Aarya closed her eyes.
But rest wouldn't come.
Her body still thrummed from the moment in the cave, from the obsidian stones that now sat wrapped in her hide-pack by her side. Her skin still tingled from Kiran's accidental touch while dressing her earlier—how gently his fingers had handled her, even as confusion etched across his brow.
And her heart?
It pounded like a drum. A wild, persistent rhythm of What now? What am I to them?
She woke to soft music—low, rhythmic, and echoing like a heartbeat through the walls.
At first, she thought it was part of her dream.
Then she opened her eyes and found two of them—Shvetan and Dhrivas—kneeling by the fire. One stirred a steaming pot over coals, the other slicing thick blue roots with a blade that shimmered when it moved.
Dhrivas, leaner and sharper-featured than the others, looked over his shoulder and gave a nod. "You rise early," he said in a deep, calm voice. "Or you don't sleep at all?"
The pendant translated slowly, its voice like a whisper in her ear.
Aarya wrapped the furs around herself tighter and sat up, nodding cautiously.
"I… couldn't," she admitted.
Shvetan, broad-shouldered and quiet, gestured toward a bowl of steaming liquid. "We made food. For strength."
She took it—hesitant, wary of taste—but found the broth surprisingly warm and rich. Her hunger finally pulled her fully into wakefulness.
"You'll need strength to survive here," Dhrivas murmured. "Even more if you stay."
Stay.
The word echoed. And the way he said it—it was not a threat. It wasn't even a suggestion.
It was a hope.
The next hours passed in fragments of wonder and small discoveries.
One of the males—Nirant—guided her toward what looked like a bath chamber, where the water ran down crystal spouts into steaming stone pools. The steam was rich with natural minerals, the scent calming, earthy.
She soaked, eyes fluttering shut, her nerves finally beginning to calm.
After that, she wandered the structure alone—though she knew they watched her.
There was a greenhouse space—lush and bioluminescent, filled with silver-leafed trees and strange flowering vines. There was a towering library where glowing glyphs danced across walls, readable only when she touched them. Her pendant buzzed constantly, trying to interpret what it could.
And always, the ten of them moved around her like shadows.
Sometimes near. Sometimes distant. But always present.
By Evening
She sat by the central fire again.
This time, they joined her.
All ten.
In a wide circle, with their large frames both relaxed and vigilant. Some with food. Some with weapons in their laps. Some with nothing but their eyes on her.
The eldest—Rudrayaan—spoke finally. His voice deeper than the mountains outside.
"We do not know what you are," he said. "But we feel your presence like a star returning to a sky we thought dead."
Aarya didn't answer at first. Her throat tightened. Her eyes darted from one face to another.
Ten of them.
Ten warriors with ancient eyes and lonely silence. Men who had grown up in a world without softness. Without laughter. Without her.
"I'm just…" she paused, trembling. "A scientist. An experiment gone wrong. I didn't mean to come here."
Silence.
Then Kiran—still the gentlest—spoke without looking at her. "Or right."