Chapter 12) The Whisper of Thorns
The fourth petal was darker than the rest.
Not in color—it was still violet, still delicate—but something about it felt heavier. More intentional. Caelum turned it in his fingers under the flickering candlelight, the edges soft as breath and sharp as meaning.
Four petals.
Four princesses.
The circle was no longer a theory. It was happening.
And he was its center.
The pendant on the floor remained cold. Silent. No more pulses. No more glow. Just a symbol of something ancient and coiling, a remnant of a game older than names.
He sat at the desk, the fourth petal resting on an open page.
He wasn't alone anymore in this.
But that didn't make him safe.
That afternoon, the rain cleared. The air turned crisp and biting, the skies a wide field of gray-blue above the city spires.
A letter arrived by hand this time, delivered by a girl in apprentice robes.
She didn't speak.
Just placed the envelope on his desk, bowed, and left without sound.
He broke the seal.
No emblem. Just one word in careful, looping handwriting:
"Lira."
And below it, a time and place.
"Chamber of Tides. Sunset."
He frowned.
He'd never heard of that location before.
He tucked the paper inside his sleeve, pulled on his cloak, and left the estate without telling Ardyn.
He had stopped warning her. Each new encounter left her more anxious, more afraid, and he couldn't afford to carry that right now.
He needed clarity.
And Lira… Lira was the quietest of them all.
Maybe she would offer it.
The Chamber of Tides was beneath the Library of Waters—a vast archive carved into the cliffside east of the city. Ancient channels of aqueducts, rain catchers, and spring-fed fountains twisted through the complex, giving the halls a slow, murmuring voice of their own.
Caelum descended stone steps slick with moss, led only by the sound of flowing water and the steady flicker of hanging lanterns.
He reached a door at the end of the tunnel—circular, polished, set with silver filigree.
It opened when he knocked.
She was already inside.
Lira stood by the pool in the chamber's center, her reflection shifting on the surface. The walls glimmered faintly, lined with carved symbols and glass orbs filled with soft light. Thin vines curled from the ceiling, and the air smelled of sage and sea salt.
She didn't turn when he entered.
"You came," she said softly.
"I did."
Silence.
He waited.
Finally, she turned.
Her eyes—pale as moonlight, framed by silver lashes—met his.
"You received the fourth petal."
It wasn't a question.
He nodded.
She walked slowly toward him, hands folded before her. Her gown was soft blue today, translucent sleeves billowing with each step like mist.
"I didn't send it," she said.
"I know."
"But it's close."
He tilted his head. "Close?"
She paused in front of him, tilting her face slightly, studying him as though searching for some hidden fracture beneath his skin.
"The fifth will come soon. I feel it."
He frowned. "How do you know?"
She looked at the pool.
"The petals are not just tokens, Caelum. They are echoes of something older. Each one passed changes you. Binds you. Not just to us—but to them."
"Them," he echoed. "You mean the Circle?"
She blinked slowly. "The Circle isn't what most think it is. It isn't a council. Or a cult. It's not even a group anymore."
He stepped closer. "Then what is it?"
Lira's voice dropped to a whisper.
"It's a will."
"A will?"
"A force that remembers the original Court. The Seven Thrones of the first era. Before the kingdoms were divided. When unity was a weapon."
She knelt beside the pool, trailing her fingers over the water's surface.
"They call it 'Petalborn' because those chosen carry fragments of that memory. Not in their mind. In their blood."
Caelum swallowed. "You think I'm one of them?"
"No." She looked up. "I think you're the last."
He turned away.
It was too much.
Too heavy.
He didn't want to be a myth. A prophecy. A tool.
He wanted to be a person.
But Lira's voice broke the silence again.
"Do you know what happens if you refuse the petals?"
He shook his head.
She touched her throat gently.
"They don't fade. They rot."
His stomach twisted.
"Rot?"
"In you. Around you. The Court turns on itself. Balance collapses. Seven become shards. Kingdoms split."
Caelum looked at her. "Then what should I do?"
Lira stood again. Taller than before. Quieter than silence.
"Don't run," she said. "When the fifth comes… face it."
By the time he returned to the estate, the lanterns were lit.
Ravens cawed in the distance.
He pushed open the doors to find Ardyn pacing in the entry hall, boots scuffed and arms crossed.
"You're lucky I didn't send a battalion after you."
He didn't reply.
Just placed the fourth petal gently on the mantle above the fireplace.
She noticed.
Her face fell.
"…Another?"
He nodded.
"Who?"
"Lira."
Ardyn leaned against the wall, rubbing her temples. "This is getting worse. You realize that, right?"
He looked at her. "It's already worse."
She opened her mouth to argue.
But a knock interrupted them.
Two sharp raps on the outer gate.
Too late for couriers. Too early for dawn.
They exchanged a look.
Ardyn moved to the peephole.
She stiffened.
"It's Seraphine."
They met her in the outer hall.
She wore black again—simple, sharp, elegant. Not a gown, but something closer to dueling leathers. Her dark hair was wet from the mist, and her eyes gleamed like midnight ink.
"I won't stay long," she said, stepping past them. "I'm not here for pleasantries."
"Then why are you here?" Caelum asked.
She stopped.
Turned.
"Because you're being watched."
He froze.
Ardyn stepped between them. "By who?"
Seraphine ignored her.
Her gaze locked on Caelum's.
"You need to stop chasing petals."
His throat went dry. "I'm not chasing them."
"Then you're standing too still," she said. "That's how they find you."
He tried to steady himself. "You mean the Circle?"
She stepped forward. "I mean what's worse than the Circle."
Ardyn narrowed her eyes. "And what would that be?"
Seraphine looked between them.
Then said a name.
A name Caelum didn't understand.
But Ardyn did.
Her face went pale.
"…That's impossible," she whispered.
"No," Seraphine said, deadly calm. "It's overdue."
Later that night, Caelum sat alone again.
He traced the petals in front of him.
Four.
The pendant pulsed once.
Then again.
Twice.
And somewhere far away, a fifth petal fell.
Unseen.
Unclaimed.
But waiting.
And it would not wait long.