The palace was never truly silent at night.
Its long corridors whispered with the steps of guards, the faint rustle of tapestries shifting in the draft, and the muted hum of the moonlight through the stained-glass windows. Yet tonight, for Aria, every sound seemed sharper, more suspicious — as though the shadows themselves were watching her.
She told herself she was only going to see the greenhouse out of curiosity, but the quickness of her heartbeat made her wonder if she was lying.
The moon hung heavy and full in the black sky as she slipped through the servant's passage.
The air was cool against her skin, carrying the faint scent of rain even though the skies had been clear all day. Somewhere deep inside the palace walls, a clock chimed once… twice… until twelve deep tolls marked the hour.
And with each strike, she felt the moment of her choice draw nearer.
The path to the greenhouse wound through the east gardens, past hedges that twisted in shapes almost like watching faces.
Her slippers barely made a sound on the stone, but every crunch of gravel seemed too loud, every breath too shallow. She could feel the pull of the place ahead — a glass structure bathed in pale silver light, standing like a jewel on the edge of the grounds.
She did not notice the figure following her from the shadows.
When she reached the greenhouse doors, they were already open.
Warmth spilled out, heavy with the perfume of countless blossoms, so rich it almost made her dizzy. The air was alive — not in the way of simple life, but as if it breathed in rhythm with the beating of her own heart.
And standing at the center, as though he had been waiting since the beginning of time, was the King of the Verdant Wilds.
He looked different in the moonlight.
The golden threads in his hair gleamed pale as silver, and his eyes seemed darker, more dangerous. He wore no crown now, only a loose shirt in deep green that left his collarbone bare, his sleeves rolled to reveal forearms dusted with faint scars like old vines etched into skin.
When he smiled, it was slower than before — not the practiced court smile, but something unguarded, intimate.
"You came," he said softly, almost as though it pleased him more than he had expected.
"I shouldn't have," she answered before she could stop herself.
He moved closer, not with the stride of a predator but the patience of a man who knew his prey was already caught.
He gestured for her to follow him deeper into the greenhouse.
Plants of every color and shape surrounded them — some she recognized, most she did not. Their petals opened in the moonlight as though sensing her presence, revealing glowing veins of blue, crimson, and gold.
One flower, tall and slender, leaned toward her as she passed, its delicate tendrils brushing the back of her hand like a question.
At the very heart of the greenhouse stood a single plant unlike any she had ever seen.
It was small — no larger than her palm — but its petals shimmered with an iridescent light, shifting from deep violet to pure white with every breath she took.
"This," the King said, his voice dropping into a near-whisper, "is the Midnight Bloom. It opens only once every century. And it will open tonight."
Aria stared at it, transfixed.
"What happens when it blooms?" she asked.
He smiled, but there was something unreadable in it. "It chooses."
Before she could question him further, he stepped behind her, his hands barely grazing her arms as he guided her closer.
"Breathe," he murmured, and she realized her breaths had grown shallow. The heat of his presence soaked through her skin, and she hated how easily her body responded.
Every nerve felt like a live wire.
The Midnight Bloom trembled, its petals quivering as if sensing something in the air between them.
She reached out, but before she could touch it, his hand caught hers, holding it just above the blossom.
"It will only open if it feels truth," he said. "And truth cannot be faked."
Her pulse hammered in her ears.
"What if I don't have the truth it wants?" she whispered.
His lips brushed so close to her ear that the question became part of his breath. "Then it will never open… and it will die."
The petals shuddered — and then, slowly, they began to unfurl.
A faint light spilled from the center, bathing their faces in soft silver. The fragrance that followed was unlike anything she had smelled before — rich, intoxicating, and almost unbearably sweet.
Her knees felt unsteady, and she wasn't sure if it was the scent or the man standing behind her that made her sway.
"Look," he whispered, and she did.
Inside the heart of the flower lay a single drop of liquid, glowing faintly, as if it were alive.
He reached past her, his arm brushing against her side, and carefully lifted the drop with a crystal vial.
"This is why I asked you here," he said, sealing the vial.
"It binds the one who drinks it to the one they love most — forever."
Her breath caught. "And you want me to drink it?"
He tilted his head, studying her like one might study an intricate puzzle.
"No," he said finally, "I want you to keep it. Until you know who you would choose."
The weight of the vial in her hand felt far heavier than it should have.
A faint sound reached her ears then — the creak of a board, the shift of air from the doorway.
She turned just in time to see a shadow move and vanish into the night.
Someone had been watching.
The King's expression changed, sharp and alert, though his tone remained calm.
"Go," he said quietly. "And hide that vial well. Some would kill for it."
She left the greenhouse with the perfume of the Midnight Bloom still clinging to her — and the certainty that nothing in her life would be the same again.