Arya felt like throwing up.

"I'll step out for a minute," she muttered under her breath, soft enough to be ignored by the rest of the audience but sharp enough to be heard by Eury. "I'll be right back."

"Arya, wait—"

Her friend's call faded behind her as she swung off her seat and tackled the steps leading up to the door. Her breath shuddered, heartbeat loud and wild against her chest. The announcer, a masculine voice thundering over the oppressive silence of gasps and laughter, bore down on her. Heavier. And heavier.

The doors flew open as Arya pushed against them in one forceful shove. The museum's dim lights were a welcome distraction to the ongoing exhibit of horrors behind her. She was vaguely aware of huffing and a set of frantic footsteps chasing after her. Howfast was she moving for that person to end up like that?

She shook her head, drowning out the memories of the helpless mermaid inside the glass tank. Still, images of those bright, yellow eyes pulsed at the back of her mind, growing brighter and brighter until it unleashed a torrent of fear inside her. Hurry. She has to get out of here. This was a mistake. Coming here has been a colossal one.

She shouldn't have listened to Eury. But wait, it wasn't her friend's fault either. Eury thought she was bringing Arya to an adventure or at least a good time to give their uninteresting lives a little bit of color. They've been both duped. Hard.

It was disgusting how the nobles and the wealthy people thought of parading around a harmless person as a source of entertainment. She didn't know it was still a thing amongst the upper class. For all she knew, circus shows and other discriminatory acts against the other races were prohibited after the fall of the Old Kingdom. There had been a war and later on a treaty between the humans and the other races. Shouldn't these exhibits be against the law?

Yet they still existed, albeit a little more cautious and done in the shadows. But in Barnholdt? In the presence of the Maltarci? Arya's mind whirled with how little this whole thing made sense. She should report this to the Council or even to the people she knew could help her.

A bitter laugh snorted out from her. Who would believe her if she told them a prestigious establishment such as Barnholdt was holding such an activity? Moreover, if she spoke up, discussion of her race and her kind would surely come up.

People would ask who in Ouine's name dared to spread lies against the astute institution. People would wonder why she felt the need to speak with sympathy for the non-human. They would conclude that Arya must be one of them. That she wasn't human. And that's a worse fate in itself.

She should—

Wait. Just a second.

Where was she?

Arya paused, the soles of her buckled shoes screeching into a halt. Her surroundings didn't feel familiar anymore. She only meant to go out of the corridor Eury had pulled her into and out the museum's lobby. Then, she'd take a few minutes of doing nothing but breathing. Calm her heart. Clear her head. She'd meant to go back, just to make Eury feel like it was a complete waste of time. After that, they'd go home, forget this day ever happened, and try to live their lives as if it never did.

That had been the plan.

And now, Arya couldn't get back on it because she couldn't even find her way back to the damned auditorium. What was the name of the hall again? Madgope? Margaude?

A curse flitted out of her lips before she could stop and think about the consequence of her words. Cornelia had drilled into her mind to think before she spoke. Guess what's out of the other ear now.

Arya clenched her fists, looked behind her, and oscillated between going west or east. All around her, glass cases protecting various artifacts she didn't even know the name of stood in imposing authority, like they're saying they belonged there but not her.

Well, she knew that but it seemed like the crude statue with beady eyes and thick lips felt the need to reiterate it. The dude didn't even reach Arya's waist if it was put on the ground. Thanks to its high pedestal, it towered over Arya in its hulking, stony glory.

The other artifacts next to it, even though they didn't remotely resemble a living being, emitted the same energy. Daggers made of broken bones sat on velvet cushions, the rare gems on their hilts glinting against the orange light inside their pedestals. Necklaces with large, golden chains and teardrop-shaped cut gems sparkled from behind their glass protection. They seemed to dare a thief into trying to steal them and would then laugh from the shadows should the brave vagabond fail.

Arya trodded through the corridor flanked by priceless objects, both from a bygone kingdom and from the founding of the new society. She whirled here and there, breaths turning haggard and labored as the more she walked, the more her environment turned foreign.

A corner bled from the hallway and she took it. More artifacts, this time, swords and outdated gowns and dresses. Unlike the artifacts she left behind, these ones were mounted on walls like a butterfly that was experimented on. Well, judging from how colorful the gowns were, they might as well be adhering to that.

She tugged her gloves again with the fingers threatening to slip off her hand. She shouldn't have listened to Cornelia and worn the damned things. They're too big, she remembered insisting, but her aunt shoved it to her face like Cornelia would die if Arya didn't wear it. Her aunt must have thought Arya was going on a date or something.

"Gloves make a woman more mysterious," Cornelia's voice played in Arya's memory before she left the flat before Five Adiem. "Men like their curiosity to be tickled."

Arya rolled her eyes, aware she must have looked insane to anyone who passed her by. Thank the gods she was alone. But not really. She would have preferred to have someone who could point her to the right direction, back to Magroupe Hall...was it?

Never mind. For all she knew, she'd be lost in these grand halls until she died of thirst or a Maltarcus found her and shot her clean.

She blinked those morbid images out of her mind. There's no use in being pessimistic in this time of distress. She just needed to find someone and ask them directions back to the lobby. Perhaps Eury could find her there. Then, she'd go home, for real.

But...who would she ask in a place crawling with beings who held their snotty noses up at someone who they thought wasn't of their own kind? If they caught her sneaking in places she shouldn't be, both as a common and as something else, wouldn't they be angry and proceed to hurt her?

No. Asking for directions was too risky. People like her should keep to themselves and not go out on a limb, talking to humans. It was far too dangerous.

She headed for the next corner to turn up at her left. It opened up to a wider wing. Cubical pillars peppered the expanse, each one bearing framed paintings on all faces. Silver plaques explained the artworks with too small of a script for Arya to read as she passed. She crossed her arms and bit her lip, ducking her head while she tore through the forest of pillars and paintings.

Then, the pillars entered a reprieve, giving way to a vast clearing where a section of the wall had nothing to block it from its viewers. An invisible force gripped Arya's legs, halting her in her steps. Ever so slowly, she raised her head from the ground and let her eyes land on the single framed painting the size of the wall in her room.

It was a portrait of a lark, the bird from the rural towns characterized by its fluffy, round chest, dappled wings, and short beaks. Arya had never really seen one in Aldermere but she had heard people praise how beautiful they sing, especially when they're happy, sad, or feeling any kind of deep emotions.

The paint had long faded, the hues that once had popped out to the viewers now hounding over the picture in a somber veil. The lark's eyes had lost its sparkle and the background of lush greens and a murky puddle which could only be the sea felt like an outdated wallpaper.

Without knowing it, she had already crossed the small space between her and the painting and was already craning her neck to see it in full. Somehow, she felt a familiar pull to the lark. For some unknown reason, a nagging feeling at the back of her head told her that she had seen this painting before.

A silver glint flashed in her periphery and she bent down to read the information about it. Perhaps, it might give some clues. The plaque read:

The Lark of Rosewall. From the remains of the Old Kingdom, a bygone empire. This work is found in the ruins of the Rosewall Castle after the Great Uprising following the death of the last King. It is thought to be commissioned by no other than—

"I see you have found the lark too."