Chapter 11) Veins of Gold, Teeth of Iron
The morning came like a blade through fog.
Caelum awoke to sunlight filtered through the long drapes of his chamber, casting stripes of gold across the floor. The pendant no longer glowed, but its cold weight in his palm reminded him that yesterday's truths hadn't been a dream.
He sat at the edge of the bed for a long time, shirt still half-unbuttoned, staring at the third petal on the desk.
A violet omen.
A thread tied to something far greater than himself.
He hadn't told Ardyn about the girl named Eline—not yet. Not even about the prophecy, or the pendant's twin. He wasn't sure if it was protection or cowardice, but either way, his silence had started building its own cage.
The knock came gently this time.
Not a soldier's urgency. Not Ardyn's concern.
A different rhythm.
He opened the door.
And found Maribelle standing there, gloved hands folded neatly, lips pressed in a neutral line. Her golden hair was coiled into a perfect knot behind her head, and her dress shimmered like summer wine.
"Good morning," she said. "We're going shopping."
Caelum blinked. "I—what?"
"You heard me." She stepped inside without permission, already surveying his wardrobe with disdain. "Put on something clean. Not gray. And preferably something that doesn't look like you've slept in it."
"I have slept in it."
"That's painfully obvious."
He frowned. "Why are we going shopping?"
"Because it's the second week of the Scepter Festival, and it's expected that noble guests contribute to the Rose Offering."
"I don't know what that is."
"Then congratulations," she said. "Today you'll learn."
He hadn't realized how quickly the court could change its skin.
One day, it was politics and threats and petals that whispered doom in the dark.
The next—it was markets strung with silk banners and streets perfumed with spices and rosewater. Lanterns in the shape of lions drifted through the air like sleepy clouds. Musicians played near fountains, and noble children chased feathered streamers with laughter in their mouths.
And here he was, trailing behind the Princess of Greed.
Not quite a prisoner. Not quite a guest.
Maribelle led with purpose, nodding gracefully at those who bowed. Unlike the other princesses, she was never flanked by knights or maids. Her power walked with her, draped in elegance, wrapped around every confident step.
"So," she said, without looking at him, "have the others warned you yet?"
Caelum squinted. "About what?"
She turned slightly, just enough to catch his expression from the corner of her eye.
"About choosing."
He blinked. "Choosing… what?"
She smiled.
"Oh, my dear forest boy," she said. "You're still pretending this is about charm, aren't you?"
Caelum stopped. "Isn't it?"
Maribelle stepped closer, her perfume subtle but intoxicating—honeyed jasmine and cold silver.
"Not anymore," she whispered. "Not since the second petal. Certainly not since the third."
He tried to hide the flinch in his shoulders.
She noticed.
"Did you really think we weren't watching?" she asked. "Every step. Every glance. Every word you've spoken since that night in the garden has rippled through this court like fire through dry grass."
"I didn't ask for that."
"No one does." She softened a little. "But it doesn't change the fact that you've become… valuable."
"To who?"
"To everyone."
She walked again.
He followed.
They arrived at the merchant ring near the Crystal Gate, where booths were carved from marble and wrapped in banners of royal red. Wealth hung in the air like smoke—opulent, effortless.
Maribelle stopped before a stand selling miniature glass animals. She picked up a fox, turned it over in her fingers, and set it down.
"Do you know how Greed survives in court?" she asked.
"Gold?" Caelum guessed.
"No," she said. "Leverage."
She looked him dead in the eyes.
"You're the greatest piece of leverage I've seen in years."
He exhaled through his nose. "I'm not some relic to be auctioned."
"Of course not," she said, almost affectionately. "You're far more dangerous than that."
Caelum turned his gaze toward the crowd, trying to calm the rising tide in his chest.
She stepped beside him.
"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?"
He didn't answer.
She told him anyway.
"I see a boy who doesn't know what he's carrying. Who thinks that because he didn't choose this game, he can still play it by his rules. But games like this… they consume their own players."
Her voice was softer now. Not cruel. Not mocking.
Just… real.
"I've watched this court eat better men than you."
He finally spoke. "Then why talk to me at all?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she turned and purchased a small, glass lion. It caught the sunlight in its mane.
She placed it in his hand.
"Because," she said, "I want to see if you'll roar."
They returned to the estate by sundown.
The air was cooler now. Harsher.
As Caelum stepped inside, Ardyn greeted him with a letter in her hand.
"Another one," she said.
He sighed. "Petal?"
"No," she said. "This one's from Rhiannon."
He froze.
Ardyn frowned. "Do you want me to open it?"
He shook his head.
Took the letter.
And ascended the stairs to his room without another word.
The letter was short.
Handwritten in a sharp, almost angry script.
Tomorrow. Third courtyard of the blacksmith's hall. Dawn. Come alone. Wear armor.
– R
No explanation.
No signature beyond the single letter.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then stood.
And began unpacking the old armor that had been gifted to him during the opening ceremony—a set of polished steel, light enough for someone who'd never truly fought before.
He didn't ask for help.
Didn't ask for permission.
Just strapped the pieces together, one by one, and sat down in silence.
Waiting for morning.
Dawn was merciless.
Wind lashed across the stone courtyard like teeth.
Rhiannon stood waiting, already in armor. Hers wasn't decorative. It was practical, worn, stained with oil and sand. She didn't wear a helmet. Just a tight braid and fury in her jaw.
"You came," she said, tossing him a wooden sword.
Caelum caught it, barely.
"I wasn't aware this was a duel."
"It's not," she said. "It's a test."
He gripped the hilt. "Of what?"
"Your spine."
She lunged.
He barely blocked the first strike.
The second sent him spinning.
The third landed against his ribs with enough force to make him drop.
Rhiannon stepped back, arms crossed. "You swing like a poet."
"Is that a compliment?"
"No," she said. "Get up."
He did.
Again and again.
The courtyard echoed with strikes and gasps and the scuffle of boots against wet stone. Rain began to fall halfway through the third round, but neither of them noticed.
When he finally collapsed—chest heaving, arms trembling—Rhiannon didn't mock him.
She crouched beside him.
"Why did you come?" she asked.
Caelum spat blood. "Because I'm tired of being unprepared."
She looked at him for a long time.
Then nodded.
And stood.
She left him there—bruised, soaked, breathing hard—but with a single word trailing behind her like a banner.
"Better."
He lay on the stone for another ten minutes, staring at the clouds.
And smiled.
Back in his room, Caelum lit a candle beside the hidden floorboard.
He added a new item to the collection: the wooden practice sword.
Broken from the last strike.
It sat beside the petals and the pendant.
Then he wrote a name beside it.
"Rhiannon."
A vow, silent and honest.
And just as he blew out the flame—
A fourth petal slipped under the door.
No wind.
No footsteps.
Just inevitability.
He picked it up slowly.
Four now.
The circle was nearly halfway complete.