"Dirthara lothlenan'as," Sina continues, her voice untrained but pleasant, though it would no doubt be moreso if she weren't crying. The green light of her shard reflects eerily on the little watching faces of the children, all of which (of those awake) are trained on the lock of the cage. A vine has begun to snake up through a crack in the floor, making it bigger as it goes, and Sina is guiding it very carefully into the keyhole. Several more have branched off to wind around other parts of the lock, preparing to pull it apart as their strength grows.
"Bal emma mala dir..."