Morning feast

The woman led me down a corridor adorned with tapestries depicting celestial constellations. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old books. We reached a heavy wooden door, its brass handle polished to a gleam. The woman pushed it open, revealing my new room.

The Chamber of Starlight—that's what I decided to call it. The walls were painted a soothing shade of midnight blue, adorned with silver constellations that seemed to shimmer when the light hit them just right.

A four-poster bed stood against one wall, its canopy draped in sheer fabric that cascaded like stardust. The mattress was plump and inviting, promising nights of restful sleep.

A writing desk sat near the window, its surface cluttered with ink bottles, quills, and parchment. The window overlooked a moonlit garden, where silver roses bloomed and fireflies danced. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting prismatic rainbows across the room when lit. The floorboards were polished oak, cool under my bare feet.

The woman gestured toward the en suite bathroom, its door ajar. "Freshen up," she said kindly. "You'll find everything you need in there."

I stepped inside, my breath catching. The bathroom was a sanctuary of marble and mirrors. A claw-footed bathtub beckoned, its golden taps promising hot water. I turned them, and steam enveloped me as the tub filled. The woman handed me a soft towel and a bar of lavender-scented soap.

As I sank into the warm water, I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation of cleanliness after so long. The woman stood nearby, her hands busy with a loofah, scrubbing away the grime and weariness. She paused when she reached my forehead, her touch gentle yet curious.

"Why are your one of your horns broken?" she asked, her voice soft.

I hesitated, memories flooding back. The fall, the pain, the loss. "I fell," I replied simply. "One day, when I was alone."

Her eyes held understanding. "Sometimes we break," she said. "But we heal, too."

When the scrubbing was done, she helped me out of the tub, wrapping me in a plush robe. She lifted me effortlessly, carrying me back to the bedroom. The wardrobe loomed, its doors creaking open. Inside hung a collection of clothes—gowns, tunics, and robes—all far too big for my slender frame.

The woman sighed. "I don't think I have anything that fits you," she admitted. "But we'll find a solution."

She pulled out a midnight-blue gown, its hem trailing on the floor. "For now," she said, "this will have to do."

I slipped into the gown, its fabric cool against my skin. The woman adjusted the neckline, her touch surprisingly gentle. "You'll learn to navigate this world," she assured me. "And perhaps, in time, we'll find clothes that truly belong to you."

As she tucked me into bed, I gazed up at the constellation-painted ceiling. The woman's smile was warm, her eyes filled with secrets. "Welcome home, Aurelia," she whispered. "Here, you're safe."

The next morning

The scent of breakfast tiptoed into my room, weaving through the delicate lace curtains like a whispered promise. It was a fragrance I hadn't encountered in years—a symphony of buttered toast, cinnamon, and freshly brewed coffee. My stomach rumbled, and for a moment, I forgot the strangeness of my surroundings.

I pushed the quilt aside, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The room was smaller than the one in our forest cottage, but it held a quiet elegance. A mahogany dresser stood against one wall, its mirror reflecting my tousled hair and wide eyes. A single window framed the awakening garden, where dew-kissed petals unfurled like secrets whispered to the dawn.

I tiptoed to the door, my heart fluttering. As I closed it gently, I felt as if I were sealing away the past—the loneliness, the hunger, the fear. The corridor beckoned, its walls adorned with paintings of mythical creatures—dragons, phoenixes, and unicorns. The scent grew stronger, pulling me downward like a silken thread.

And there it was—the dining room—a place that defied the boundaries of my imagination. The ceiling soared, its frescoes depicting celestial beings feasting among the stars. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen rainbows, casting prismatic light upon the polished mahogany table below. Silverware gleamed, and porcelain plates awaited their guests.

But my gaze was drawn to the far end of the room, where a large bay window framed a view of the sun-kissed garden. Birds flitted among the roses, their songs weaving into the morning breeze. And there, by the window, sat my beloved cat, Cookies. The black-furred creature was busy with a bowl of cat food, her tail twitching in contentment.

I knelt beside her, my fingers sinking into her soft fur. "Good morning, my little star," I whispered. She purred, her yellow eyes half-closed. She had been my sole companion during those lonely nights in the forest, and now, in this opulent room, she seemed to belong just as much as I did.

My attention shifted to the table, where a feast awaited. Golden croissants lay nestled in a woven basket, their flaky layers promising warmth and buttery delight. A crystal carafe held freshly squeezed orange juice, its color like liquid sunshine. And then there were the dishes—the kind that belonged in fairy tales.

Poached eggs perched atop beds of wilted spinach, their yolks like miniature suns. Smoked salmon lay draped over delicate blinis, crowned with dollops of crème fraîche. And the pastries—oh, the pastries! Pain au chocolat, almond-filled crescents, and raspberry danishes beckoned, their sugared crusts glistening.

I sat down, my fingers trembling. The woman hadn't arrived yet, but I couldn't wait any longer. I picked up a fork, the silverware cool against my skin. The first bite of poached egg burst with flavor, the yolk oozing like liquid gold. I closed my eyes, savoring the richness. The salmon melted on my tongue, and the blinis crunched delicately.

"Enjoying your meal, Aurelia?" The woman's voice startled me. I looked up to find her standing there, her expression a mix of surprise and amusement. She wore a simple gown of azure silk, her green hair cascading over one shoulder.

I swallowed, my cheeks flushing. "Yes," I stammered. "It's… incredible."

She pulled out a chair and sat across from me. "You have quite the appetite," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But take your time. We have all morning."

I nodded, my mouth already full of croissant. The woman's laughter tinkled like wind chimes. "After breakfast," she said, "we'll go out and buy you some clothes. You can't wander around in that old gown forever."

I glanced down at the faded fabric, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look in this luxurious setting. But for now, I focused on the feast—the flavors, the textures, the sheer abundance. Perhaps this House of Celestial Harmony held more than just magic; perhaps it held a chance for me to belong.

As I devoured another croissant, I realized that todaay was going to be a great day.