Chap­ter XXI opens with a mount­ing ten­sion that is less about dan­ger and more about desire—specifically, Zee’s grow­ing affec­tion toward the nar­ra­tor. Unlike the play­ful com­pan­ion­ship he shares with Taee, Zee’s feel­ings are weight­ed by a grav­i­ty that unset­tles him. Her inter­est is nei­ther flir­ta­tious nor naive; it is root­ed in a pro­tec­tive, almost mater­nal instinct that merges affec­tion with respon­si­bil­i­ty. She does not mere­ly care—she invests, heals, and seeks to ele­vate. Her strength and wis­dom make her beloved by her peo­ple and revered by all who wit­ness her pres­ence. Yet this devo­tion toward the nar­ra­tor feels over­whelm­ing, even unnat­ur­al, to him.

He admires her great­ly, espe­cial­ly dur­ing cer­e­monies where her attire trans­forms her into a fig­ure of radi­ance. The head­piece she wears, lit from with­in by gem­stones that seem to breathe with light, gives her a celes­tial appear­ance. There’s rev­er­ence in his obser­va­tion, but also dis­tance. He can­not see her as an equal in affec­tion. She is too pow­er­ful, too com­posed, too far beyond what he has known. The gap between them is not just cul­tur­al or physical—it is spir­i­tu­al. And that gap fos­ters not pas­sion, but hes­i­ta­tion. He finds him­self both hon­ored and unnerved by her pref­er­ence.

Though Zee’s atten­tion is gen­er­ous, he inter­prets it as par­tial­ly dri­ven by curios­i­ty. His pres­ence is for­eign, his behav­ior nov­el, his weak­ness­es per­haps even endear­ing to a woman used to strength. But even with this under­stand­ing, he strug­gles to accept that she, a being of such refined virtue and intel­lect, could see any­thing wor­thy in him. He feels exposed, not flat­tered. There’s a sense of imbal­ance in their dynam­ic that no amount of kind­ness can neu­tral­ize. While she may feel admi­ra­tion, he sees in him­self only inad­e­qua­cy. This makes her affec­tion feel like a bur­den, not a gift. A mis­placed bond could invite con­se­quences not just per­son­al, but social.

What trou­bles him most is the impli­ca­tion of her affec­tion in the eyes of her peo­ple. He is still a guest, bare­ly tol­er­at­ed by the cau­tious guardians of this under­ground soci­ety. Zee, being admired and pow­er­ful, is not some­one whose heart is idly giv­en. If this affec­tion became known, it might be inter­pret­ed as a deep­er intention—perhaps even one of alliance. And alliances here, unlike above, are polit­i­cal as well as emo­tion­al. In such a soci­ety, romance is nev­er entire­ly pri­vate. That prospect fills him with dread. Not just because he can­not return her feel­ings, but because he doesn’t want to mis­lead a com­mu­ni­ty built on unshak­able order.

To address this, he choos­es to con­fide in her father, Aph-Lin. This deci­sion does not come eas­i­ly. He wor­ries about betray­ing Zee’s dig­ni­ty, but his sense of hon­or com­pels him to act. It is not enough to pas­sive­ly avoid the sit­u­a­tion. He must clar­i­fy his posi­tion in a way that pre­serves mutu­al respect. The nar­ra­tor knows he can­not remain silent. His pres­ence among the Vril-ya is already frag­ile. Let­ting this mis­un­der­stand­ing grow would endan­ger that bal­ance.

Aph-Lin’s poten­tial response weighs heav­i­ly on his mind. The father may see the sit­u­a­tion with calm detachment—or he might see it as a threat. Among the Vril-ya, emo­tions are not worn on sleeves, but they are not with­out inten­si­ty. He fears that even a well-inten­tioned con­fes­sion could pro­voke cau­tion­ary action. There are no jails here, no tri­als. Judg­ment comes swift­ly and with­out spec­ta­cle. Though he walks among them in peace, he is always aware that it is a peace he did not earn, only received on loan.

At the core of his dilem­ma is an inter­nal con­flict between admi­ra­tion and fear. He respects Zee deeply—so much that he would nev­er mock or triv­i­al­ize her feel­ings. But he also fears that accept­ing even a moment of her affec­tion would place him in a role he can­not ful­fill. He does not see him­self as wor­thy. Not because she lacks flaws, but because her flaws are so grace­ful they seem designed to inspire, not to con­nect. That dis­tance, sub­tle but unmov­ing, cre­ates a qui­et chasm he feels unable to cross.

As the chap­ter clos­es, he pre­pares him­self for the con­ver­sa­tion ahead. His steps are care­ful, and his words must be even more so. He hopes for under­stand­ing, not per­mis­sion. He seeks a way to leave Zee’s heart untouched, even if it means plac­ing his own com­fort aside. There is no tri­umph in this moment—only a qui­et ten­sion. And through it, he begins to see just how deep the dif­fer­ences between their worlds run. Not in tech­nol­o­gy, not in intel­li­gence, but in the sub­tleties of human con­nec­tion.