Chap­ter XXII draws atten­tion to the care­ful watch placed over the pro­tag­o­nist as he moves among the Vril-ya. Though wel­comed with civil­i­ty, he is nev­er tru­ly left alone. Aph-Lin or the boy Taee accom­pa­ny him at near­ly every turn, under­scor­ing both a cul­tur­al wari­ness and an unspo­ken cau­tion. Despite ear­li­er assur­ances of dis­cre­tion, Aph-Lin remains skep­ti­cal that the pro­tag­o­nist can ful­ly con­trol what he shares. The slight­est detail about his world could inspire curios­i­ty or fear. He begins to sense that trust here is con­di­tion­al and tight­ly mon­i­tored.

With­in Aph-Lin’s home, the fam­i­ly dynam­ic dif­fers great­ly from what the nar­ra­tor knows. Occu­pa­tions vary, yet no hier­ar­chy is attached to work. Dig­ni­ty is found in skill, not sta­tus. Aph-Lin’s chil­dren are self-direct­ed and equal­ly respect­ed, regard­less of gen­der or ambi­tion. His eldest son, intrigued by Earth­ly devices, exchanges time­pieces with the narrator—revealing how far ahead the Vril-ya are in pre­ci­sion and ener­gy use. This brief moment of con­nec­tion through objects bridges their cul­tur­al divide. It’s a glimpse into mutu­al curios­i­ty, unmarred by fear. But even in this exchange, bound­aries remain clear and unspo­ken.

Eager to under­stand more of the world around him, the nar­ra­tor pro­pos­es ven­tur­ing into oth­er sub­ter­ranean regions, includ­ing those inhab­it­ed by so-called “sav­ages.” Aph-Lin, while not dis­mis­sive, swift­ly points out the dan­ger. Such groups are unsta­ble, often react­ing with fear or aggres­sion toward out­siders. More trou­bling, how­ev­er, is the unpre­dictabil­i­ty of oth­er Vril-ya com­mu­ni­ties. Some may see him as an anomaly—others, as a threat. His for­eign appear­ance, his unknown poten­tial, and his mere pres­ence chal­lenge their equi­lib­ri­um. Aph-Lin reminds him that his safe­ty depends on remain­ing hid­den with­in the folds of trust. Any­thing that dis­turbs that trust could end very dif­fer­ent­ly.

Aph-Lin shares that dur­ing the ini­tial debate after the nar­ra­tor’s arrival, some coun­cil mem­bers favored imme­di­ate elim­i­na­tion. Not out of cru­el­ty, but as a pre­cau­tion. In a soci­ety where dis­rup­tion is rare, an unknown being rep­re­sents a poten­tial breach of order. He was spared because of Taee’s and Zee’s advo­ca­cy, and because his behav­ior showed restraint. Still, the impli­ca­tion is chilling—acceptance was nev­er guar­an­teed. It had been grant­ed under strict con­di­tions, always sub­ject to review. For the first time, the nar­ra­tor ful­ly feels the fragili­ty of his wel­come.

The con­ver­sa­tion shifts toward Zee, whose admi­ra­tion for the nar­ra­tor is no longer sub­tle. Her actions car­ry more weight now that he under­stands how author­i­ty and social inde­pen­dence work among the Vril-ya women. She is pow­er­ful, respect­ed, and unac­cus­tomed to rejec­tion. Aph-Lin speaks fond­ly of her strength and intel­lect, not­ing her exten­sive trav­els and con­tri­bu­tions to their soci­ety. Yet none of this com­forts the nar­ra­tor. He begins to fear that a rela­tion­ship with Zee might entan­gle him in expec­ta­tions he can­not ful­fill. Not just per­son­al ones, but soci­etal ones, gov­erned by a cul­ture he still can­not ful­ly grasp.

Aph-Lin’s tone turns firm when the nar­ra­tor sug­gests the pos­si­bil­i­ty of leav­ing. Depar­ture is not sim­ply walk­ing away. It is an act that could trig­ger wide­spread con­cern, sus­pi­cion, or worse. Once inside the realm of the Vril-ya, one does not exit with­out con­se­quence. The pro­tag­o­nist begins to real­ize that he is not a guest, but more like a care­ful­ly mon­i­tored vari­able in a del­i­cate equa­tion. If that vari­able proves unsta­ble, it must be removed for the sake of the whole. The words are not stat­ed harsh­ly, but their mean­ing is unde­ni­able.

Alone lat­er that evening, the nar­ra­tor reflects on the web tight­en­ing around him. Zee’s affec­tion, once awk­ward, now feels per­ilous. He fears being drawn into a bond that he nei­ther chose nor feels able to decline. Yet refusal could also be dan­ger­ous, giv­en the polit­i­cal and emo­tion­al stature she holds. Trapped between polite­ness and sur­vival, he won­ders if he has already crossed a line. Affec­tion in this world is not tentative—it is delib­er­ate. And being the object of such affec­tion might car­ry a cost beyond per­son­al dis­com­fort.

These thoughts lead to a grow­ing sense of iso­la­tion. Though sur­round­ed by enlight­ened beings, he remains alone in his instincts and fears. The Vril-ya live with­out secre­cy, but that open­ness only deep­ens his need to hide his true thoughts. His past, his inten­tions, his desire for escape—all must be locked away behind a smile. The nar­ra­tor real­izes his pres­ence has become a silent test of this society’s lim­its. And each pass­ing day feels more like a count­down. Not just to a choice—but to a reck­on­ing.