The Hanging Gardens of the Palace were a miracle of engineering, a green paradise suspended three thousand feet above the smoke. Encased in a massive dome of reinforced crystal, exotic flowers from a forgotten age bloomed In perpetual spring, fed by hydroponic tubes and artificial sunlight.
But even here, the air felt thin.
Silver walked through the rows of blue orchids, his silk robes rustling softly against the marble path. He didn't look at the flowers. He hated them. They were perfect, symmetrical, and completely scentless—just like everything else in the Golden Quarter.
He reached the center of the dome, where a white gazebo stood draped In sheer curtains. Inside, sitting in a chair carved from ivory, was Lyra.
She was twelve years old, but she looked much younger. Her skin was translucent, pale as moonlight, revealing a delicate web of blue veins beneath. Her breathing was shallow, a wet, rattling sound that marred the silence of the garden.
"Silver?" she whispered, turning her head. Her eyes were large, glassy, and filled with a feverish heat.
"I'm here, little bird," Silver said, his voice shedding its usual cold arrogance, replaced by a rare, fragile warmth. He knelt beside her chair, taking her small, cold hand In his.
Lyra took a ragged breath, her chest heaving painfully. "I… I saw the smoke again today. From the vents."
Silver tightened his grip on her hand. "Don't look down, Lyra. There Is nothing to see."
"Father says…" She paused, a coughing fit shaking her small frame. She squeezed her eyes shut until it passed. "Father says the Abyss Is a place of monsters. He says It's scary down there. Is it, Silver?"
Silver looked at her face, ravaged by the "Dust Sickness." It was the ultimate irony of their world: Midas could buy entire cities, but he couldn't buy air pure enough to save his own daughter. The toxins of the industrial engine rose, and even the highest towers couldn't escape the poison they created.
Silver reached into the folds of his white robe. He pulled out a single object.
It was a rose, forged from pure, polished silver. Its petals were razor-thin, crafted with such impossible precision that they looked soft to the touch. It was cold, heavy, and eternal.
"Here," Silver whispered, placing the metal flower in her trembling palm.
Lyra looked at it, her eyes widening. "It… it's beautiful."
"There is nothing scarier than this palace, Lyra," Silver said, his voice low and bitter. He looked around at the glass walls that caged them. "Down there, In the Abyss, they die becausee they have nothing to eat. They die screaming for bread."
He brushed a strand of hair from her sweaty forehead.
"But here? Here we die of gluttony. We die of excess. We sit on thrones of gold and die of loneliness."
He closed her fingers around the stem of the silver rose.
"This rose is like us, Lyra," he whispered, a sad smile touching his lips. "It is cold. It is beautiful. And it will never withr."
Lyra tried to smile back. She opened her mouth to speak, but a violent spasm seized her chest.
Cough. Cough. Retch.
She hunched over, her body convulsing. Silver stood up to help her, panic flashing in hIs eyes, but it was too late.
Lyra gasped, covering her mouth with her hand—the hand holding the rose. When she pulled it away, the pristine, polished sIlver petals were no longer perfect.
They were stained with bright, crimson blood.
The red liquid dripped from the metal flower, sliding down the silver stem like tears, before falling onto the white marble floor.
Drip. Drip.
Silver stared at the blood. The contrast between the cold metal and the warm life draining from his sister made his stomach churn. In that moment, the prince didn't see a flower. He saw a prophecy.