The Royal garden room was drenched in filtered sunlight, the tall arched windows, casting shadows that dance across the polished marble floor. It was said to be one of the most beautiful chambers in Eldenwilde palace – a space chosen with care by queen Iridessa herself.
She sat gracefully, her back straight, her smile trained and thin as lace. Across from her, queen Camilla reclined with one leg crossed over the other, the sunlight catching the emeralds in her tiara – a sharp reminder of her power and wealth.
"So Camilla," Iridessa began lightly, lifting her teacup without sipping,, "where was the king this morning? I hadn't seen him at breakfast."
Iridessa already knew where he was. King Cael had returned to Adverland at first light, citing court affairs. But Iridessa wanted to engage her guest, perhaps spark a friendly tone. She wanted an ally. Camilla was one of the richest queens alive – refined, powerful, and not just married into royalty, but wrapped around it. In Adverland, the king ruled, yes – but Camilla controlled it.
Camilla barely looked up. She let out a breath – not quite a sigh, more like a subtle scoff. Then she replied, "he went back for court matters." She said, as if stating the obvious was beneath her. "Surely, you know what kings do."
Camilla was rude, yes – but she was regal. It irritated Iridessa how easily the woman wore power. Gold coiled around her wrists and throat, stuffed into her fingers, even laced in her hair. That emerald crown glimmered with a quiet arrogance Iridessa envied.
She didn't like the woman. But she liked her jewels. And her kingdom.
Camilla's beauty was undeniable, though she clung faintly to her – her short brown her now layered with silvery strands, her blue eyes still sharp but shadowed. She was still breathtaking, like a storm contained in silk.
Iridessa was mid-thought when the door opened.
Ivy entered, soft and glowing, draped in pale blue. "Your majesties," she said gently, curtsying with the grace of a seasoned noble.
Camilla barely spared her a glance. In her eyes, Havynlee – regardless of her cursed bloodline – was far more striking. The kind of beauty that didn't beg for attention, that made silence louder…..
But Ivy….this one always tried too hard. True, she had royal blood, but she carried herself like a merchant's daughter at a dress auction. Even a palace servant wouldn't dare dress the way Ivy did – layers upon layers of goudy jewellery clinking like a restless chandelier. If she was to marry her son, then her skin would need cleansing, smoothing, polishing until it gleamed like ivory. She wasn't necessarily as pale as Havynlee, but that could be corrected with the right herbal treatments and pastes.
Camilla didn't know what the girls called it these days – perhaps they ground jasmine and crushed pearls and called it 'restoration' or 'milk bathing' – whatever it was, Ivy needed it,
And she needed more flesh, too. Her figure was thin, her bosom unimpressive. If this girl wanted to wear a crown, she'd have to be molded into perfection. Camilla would see to it herself. Tighter corsets, richer silks, the illusion of elegance of not the substance.
That's if the plan worked. Because no matter how unnatural and otherworldly Havynlee looked….she still refused to be ignored.
And Camilla hated that.
....
Havynlee walked slowly, her steps light but careful, the hem of her dress whispering against the garden stones. The air was cooler here in the shade-draped corridors of the south gardens, where the sun only brushed the edges of the hedges, and roses climbed lazily along carved trellises.
Her hair had been gathered half-up with pearl pins glinting like moonlight. From a distance, she looked almost ethereal. But up close, she seemed too still. Too quiet. Like something beneath her skin was coiled and waiting.
Lia walked beside her, a few respectful paces behind, hands tucked into the folds of her worn cloak, she was no longer young, but there was something ageless in her gaze – something that came from years of silence of serving and watching. She had known Seraphielle before everything fell apart.
Before the child was born. Before the palace walls swallowed the truth.
"My princess," Lia began, her voice quiet and seasoned, as if it had learned long ago not to raise itself too high in royal places, "there is something you should know before the ceremony."
Havynlee turned her head slightly, meeting Lia's eyes without breaking her stride. "Go on."
Lia hesitated, brushing her fingers along the sleeve of her gown, her voice lowering as if ashamed of the very words she was about to speak.
"It is...tradition. In Adverland. On the wedding night of the crown prince and his bride, it is said that noble members of the family must bear witness."
Havynlee's breath caught violently in her throat and she coughed, chocking on air. Her hand went to her chest, "I'm sorry?" She asked, though she heard Lia clearly.
Lia didn't repeat herself. She only nodded solemnly, her expression apologetic but resigned. "It's an ancient rite. Though these days, it is more symbolic than literal. Still….the room will not be empty."
For a moment, Havynlee said nothing. She looked ahead, toward the blooming rows of lilies and ghost-roses curling around the marble archways. Her face betrayed nothing.
But inside, her thoughts were louder than bells.
They'd watch me? Stripped of all dignity? Reduced to nothing but a ritual-like cattle bred in ceremony?
"Thank you, Lia." She said quietly.
There was no trace of fear in her tone. But her hands had folded in front of her, tight, the knuckles pale.
The thought of being watched – observed like some royal performance, some animal in heat – sickened her. What sort of kingdom practiced such cruelty under the guise of tradition? What sort of prince would allow it.
Lia cast her a glance, "forgive me, I don't mean to frighten you."
"You didn't," Havynlee's eyes remained fixed on the garden ahead. "But you did remind me what sort of world I live in."
And she continued walking, her dress brushing the grass. Lia followed closely behind, careful not to speak again.
Above them, from one of the arched balconies, prince Morven stood at the open window of his private chambers, arms crossed, jaw tight. The view below was breathtaking – the garden lit like gold melting into dusk. Havynlee's form a portrait of elegance as she moved beneath the wisteria. But it wasn't just her beauty that drew him in. It was the strange stillness she carried. Like a secret locked inside flesh. Like something ancient, pretending to be soft.
She unsettled him.
She looked…..untouchable. She always had. Serene, poised, haunting. And perhaps that was what unsettled him the most – how she rarely smiled, how she never looked at him too long. How her silence made him feel seen and invisible all at once.
He has kissed noble girls before. Touched them in shadowed corners between dances and empty halls. He knew what it was to want.
But Havynlee was not the kind of a girl a man simply wanted.
She was the kind of girl a man tried to survive.
There were moments – fleeting ones – where he thought he might love her. Not the way he loved soft skin or parted lips, but the way a man might love the edge of a blade. She made him feel watched, even when she wasn't looking at him. He wanted her. But he didn't know what to do with her. He didn't know how to hold her. She felt like something that might unravel him if he tried.
He wanted her. He knew that. But not the way he wanted Ivy.
Ivy.
Her name alone felt like heat pressing against his skin.
Ivy, who tilted her head when she looked at him. Who had always seemed to know what his eyes were hiding. Ivy, who wasn't quiet or confusing. She was easy. She didn't cloud his thoughts like a storm he couldn't read. She laughed. She touched his arms in hallways. She pressed against him at banquets, just enough to make his skin buzz. She made herself available.
He had seen her in the corridor last night, dressed in silk so thin it may as well have been air.
She'd looked at him and didn't even blink when his gaze dropped. She knew what she was doing.
He wanted her then.
He still wanted her now.
But watching Havynlee walk below, something else stirred – something sharp, and wrong, and aching.
Ivy made him burn. But Havynlee questioned what it meant to be a man.
Couldn't he want both? Was it truly so vile?
His thoughts darkened. He clenched his fists.
He wanted to taste Ivy – taste her sin, her eagerness, her desperation to be chosen. He wanted to see her undone. That hunger was simple.
But Havynlee….
Havynlee did not hunger.
She did not plead.
She did not need him.
And that, somehow infuriated him the most.
Below she paused at the fountain. Lia knelt to adjust her slipper. Havynlee stood still, her face lifted to the last trace of sunlight, a small shadow flickering at her feet where it shouldn't be, her eyes too quiet for a girl about to be crowned someone's bride.
He watched her lips part slightly, then close again. As if she'd thought of something she couldn't say.
He felt it again – that aching need to touch her, to hold her still, to figure her out.
And yet, Ivy's laugh rang louder in his memory.
He wanted them both.
But he could only claim one.
And the wrong choice might just ruin him.
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