The doors slid shut like a held breath, and the harp's first note cut loose into the room. It was a smaller affair than the palace's thunderous feasts—no long tables, no banquet heaped high with roasted boars—this was a ball: bodies moving, music circling, conversation kept to a glittering murmur so the dancers could hear one another's footfalls. Lanterns had turned the marble of the ball wing into a shallow lake of light by the time the first guests arrived. The long hall, with its pillared colonnades and statues that watched like old promises, breathed like a living thing now—soft murmur, the clink of glass, the slap of silk skirts on stone. Outside, the gardens sighed with the scent of roses; inside, the air was a precise weave of roasted meat, heated wax, and the faint bitter of claret.
The ball itself was alive with color. Musicians perched on the mezzanine filled the hall with waltzes and lively reels, their bows sweeping across strings in harmony, flutes and clarinets weaving playful notes that beckoned dancers onto the floor. Pairs soon twirled across the polished marble, skirts blooming like flowers in motion, coats flashing with jeweled buttons. Laughter rang out as conversations spilled between dances, words threaded with gossip, ambition, and the unspoken hopes of those seeking notice from the Crown Prince.
At the head of the room stood Crown Prince Caelum, regal in dark attire touched with subtle gold. He welcomed each arrival with a measured smile, the weight of his station wrapped in poise. To his side, acting with graceful composure, was Lyra of House Althain. Though not the crown's chosen bride, she was the evening's hostess, guiding the flow of greetings, ensuring warmth touched where formality might have otherwise chilled. Her light red hair caught the glow of the candles as she inclined her head, her every word and gesture smoothing the current of the gathering.
On paper, the night belonged to Lyra. The announcement that had gone through town and country called it "A Night in Welcome of Prince Caelum" presented as a courtesy banquet held by the lady of the estate. In practice the arrangement was a careful piece of theater: Lyra the gracious hostess—efficient, composed, visibly in command of the night's every detail; Caelum the relaxed guest of honor—laughing easily, offering to refill goblets, joking with men who assumed his charm was his only weapon. The disguise served two purposes. It kept suspicion at bay and it let Caelum move through the throng more like everyone else—seen, but underestimated.
Lyra stood at the threshold of her domain: walking the room, receiving curtseys, making introductions with the calm cadence of someone naming pieces on a board. Her hands never lingered. When a footman's tray wobbled in one narrow turn, she steadied it with nothing more than a slight angle of shoulder and a word whispered to the boy. When a cluster of noblewomen clustered too near the central table, she redirected them with a polite laugh and an offered stool. Every motion was the practiced mercy of a woman who knew how spectacle must look effortless to be tolerable.
Caelum drifted like sunshine among the columns. He laughed easily, answered toasts with a quip, and let compliments fall to his head like confetti. But the smile did not erase the way his eyes took inventory—small, quick notations: the steadiness of a man's hand, the way a woman listened when others spoke, who moved to help when a servant slipped a plate. He spoke in the tone of a prince who loved his people enough to be lighthearted about it, and that lightness disarmed the palace's hawk eyes. Men and women let down an edge around him; they spoke more freely, thinking him little more than a pleasant ornament. That was exactly what he wanted.
Caelum's scouting began in the smallest, quietest ways. He tested people with the same deftness a fisherman tests a line. At first, the probes were casual, questions tossed like bread into water.
He stopped by a pillar where a man kept his glove slightly off his hand—habit, perhaps, or a way to keep his fingers loose. The man's eyes kept scanning the room like a hawk's, not missing doors or faces. Caelum spoke of nothing more than the minstrels' choice of tune; the man's response, a single, unassuming correction about the scale, revealed a mind used to noticing small technicalities. Caelum made his mental tick next to that one.
Near the hearth, a woman in practical leather—her gown trimmed but plainly so—moved through the guests with an ease that ignored rank and sought trouble. When a boy from the kitchen burst suddenly into the hall with a tray too heavy, spilling wine across a carpet, she stepped without hesitation. Not to scold; to catch. She brushed sleeves, offered napkins, checked the boy's knees for scrapes with fingers that had known bandaging. Caelum watched the compassion, the speed, the steadiness of touch. The mark was made.
Lyra worked the room with a parallel, quieter scrutiny. As hostess she coaxed conversation from the reticent, deflected flattery from the obsequious, and anchored the drifting with questions that pulled strangers into ordinary talk. Her voice was the domestic instrument of diplomacy—soft but exact—and she used it to reveal character unintentionally. Who lied to avoid discomfort? Who told a true small sorrow that made a stranger's eyes go soft? Lyra noticed everything in the way a steward notices the state of a room: the false notes and the honest ones alike.
The guests themselves were many in number, a scattering of nobles and landed gentry who had come because custom and curiosity both tugged them. The larger the crowd, the better for disguise. Hidden in the edges of that crowd, however, were people whose actions began to make themselves known: a quiet man at the window with scars along his knuckles who kept his drink untouched and his hand near his sword; a young scholar who slipped a note into a minstrels' music page and later corrected their lyrics with a pointed question about the Spectres' known haunts; a blacksmith's son who spoke bluntly of forges and ingots when wine loosened tongues and did not flinch when mocked; a healer who moved among guests carrying a satchel and offered an herbal salve to a woman complaining of a headache without charging for it; another—young, guarded—whose grief seemed to sit like a second cloak and who gave no tidy answers, but who watched details as if gathering fragments for later use.
Caelum logged them not as names but as traits—shield, mind, craft, remedy, heart. He imagined roles for each: one to stand between Lyra and danger; another to map the Spectres' tendency for misdirection; one to mend flesh and cover tracks; one to move through markets and alleys without leaving the sort of footprints a lord's man could follow. He needed balance. Magic might be the key, but the key had teeth and would be far less useful without hands and heads to frame it.
Out in the garden the fountain shimmered. The statues looked on like quiet judges. Inside, among the linens and candles, Lyra gathered the last of the ledgers, her expression composed. She had played the hostess exactly as the court would later recall: discreet, charming, efficient. But in the quiet between duties, when the servants' footsteps softened and the lamps burned lower, both she and Caelum began the more dangerous work—choosing the ones who might, together, make a force strong enough to lift the kingdom from the shadows.
The music swelled beneath the glittering chandeliers, violins and cellos weaving together in a stately tune as the floor began to clear for the opening dance. A hush fell over the hall as all eyes turned to the guest of honor—the crown prince himself.
Caelum rose from his seat with a languid grace that belied the weight of his position, his expression mild, almost playful, as though the gathering were but a pleasant diversion. He moved toward Lyra, whose role as hostess kept her standing tall, every motion precise, her gown gleaming under the candlelight. She had been entertaining guests all evening, her smile poised, her voice carrying warmth to nobles who watched her every step.
When the music swelled, Caelum stepped forward. "Lady Lyra," he said smoothly, his tone warm enough to be heard by the surrounding guests, "as the gracious hostess of this fine evening, would you do me the honor of the first dance?"
Murmurs rippled through the hall—approval, admiration, perhaps even envy. Lyra inclined her head with a polite smile, masking her inner calculation. It was exactly the kind of gesture that would seem natural to others, yet she knew well enough that Caelum chose every step deliberately.
He took her hand and led her to the center of the floor. When the dance began, their movements fell into the practiced elegance of courtly rhythm. His hand at her waist, her steps in time with his, they moved across the marble in sweeping arcs as the rest of the hall looked on.
"You have entertained them well," Caelum remarked lightly, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "The hall hums with chatter, yet no discord. You've made it all seem effortless."
Lyra allowed herself a small laugh, soft enough not to carry. "You flatter me. But I suspect that was your intent all along—placing me at the forefront while you linger as guest of honor."
They turned with the music, silk brushing silk, the murmurs of their audience blurring into the background. After a moment, Lyra tilted her head, her voice more measured now. "Tell me, then, highness. Among all these lords and ladies gathered here—do any catch your interest?"
His lips curved in a slight grin, though his eyes held a flicker of something more thoughtful. They turned gracefully with the music, their pace drawing them past clusters of nobles.
Caelum's voice dipped, low enough to remain unheard beyond their circle. "I find myself thinking of the garden rather than the table. Some blooms are fair enough to display in the sun, but they do not endure. Others, though they lack immediate splendor, grow roots deep enough to weather storms. Those are the ones worth cultivating."
Lyra's brow arched slightly as she caught his meaning, though she could not resist pressing him. "So in simpler terms," she said, her voice dry but soft enough to pass as playful, "you mean most of them are here for show, but you are watching for the ones who will last."
His chuckle was brief, but it softened the cool image he often projected. "Precisely. You do have a gift for stripping my words of their riddles, my lady. Though I might argue you spoil the poetry of it."
"Not everyone has the patience for poetry," she returned, stepping neatly into the next movement of the dance. "And besides, clarity spares me from having to guess what you're thinking."
As the song swelled toward its close, Caelum guided her through the final turn, his expression smooth, princely, yet touched with an intimacy reserved for no one else in the room. When they bowed and curtsied to one another, the hall erupted in applause, and the rest of the guests began spilling onto the floor to join the dance.
"Now," Caelum murmured as the applause faded, "let us see how our garden grows."
The last notes of her dance with Caelum had barely faded when another figure stepped forward from the watching crowd.
"Lady Lyra," the man said, voice smooth as polished glass, "if the guest of honor may claim your first dance, then perhaps a simple guest might be permitted your second?"
The request was public enough that courtesy demanded she accept, though the gleam in his eye and the murmurs it stirred among the onlookers made her suspect he had intended precisely that. Lyra placed her hand in his, and together they slipped into the rhythm of the next song.
His eyes caught her before anything else—peridot, sharp and luminous, gleaming with a brightness that seemed to see more than most dared show. The man was handsome in a way that did not quite fit the court's polished mold. His dark hair fell just a little unruly over his brow, and though his attire was cut with noble precision, there was an ease to the way he wore it that spoke more of confidence than vanity. She recognized him from the whispers in the hall—Sethor Vale.
He was not a noble in the strictest sense; his family had been, once, before relinquishing their title generations ago. Since then, the Vale line had carved its reputation as masters of information—guildsmen who commanded respect in the capital for their subtlety, insight, and precision. And here was, the living embodiment of that legacy.
Lyra inclined her head graciously and accepted his hand. "It would be my pleasure, Lord Vale—though perhaps I should say Master Vale, given your lineage?"
"Just Sethor will do," he replied smoothly, guiding her onto the floor with practiced elegance. "My forebears thought titles were a poor substitute for usefulness. I've grown rather fond of their logic."
His touch was steady as they fell into the rhythm of the waltz, his steps confident, leading without overbearing. At first, his talk was harmless.
"The hall is exquisite," he remarked, guiding her expertly through a turn. "The chandeliers, the flowers—it all speaks of care. I cannot imagine this banquet was arranged in haste."
Lyra gave a practiced laugh. "I did hope it would leave an impression," she replied. "Guests ought to feel welcome, after all."
Sethor's lips quirked. "Oh, it does more than that. It feels… intentional. As though every little detail has been placed not only to impress, but to watch who notices."
Her brows lifted faintly, though her steps didn't falter. "That is quite the observation for a guest of honor's welcome ball," she said, tilting her head slightly, her voice light. "Do you often analyze flower arrangements and candle placements, Lord Vale?"
"Only when they're worth analyzing." His eyes held hers as though daring her to look away. He guided her into the rhythm effortlessly, as if the dance were second nature, not performance. His peridot eyes gleamed with the sharpness of a hawk as they met hers. "I had wondered if the chance would come. The guest of honor has already monopolized your first song, and I feared the rest of us would be left starved for fortune."
Lyra smiled faintly. "It is only natural. The evening is meant for him."
"True," Sethor allowed, lips curving, "but one might argue the evening is carried on your shoulders. The prince plays guest, but you are its heart. What an honor it is that last," he chuckled, "I find myself in the presence of the famed Lady Lyra Althain. I'd begun to think the tales of your grace and wit were no more than courtly inventions."
She offered him a polite smile, meeting his words with the practiced poise she had donned all evening. "Tales have a tendency to exaggerate, Lord Vale. You'll find I am much more ordinary than rumor suggests."
He chuckled softly. "Ordinary? I fear you're already proving yourself a poor liar."
The quip earned him a slight arch of her brow. At first she dismissed it as harmless banter, but as the dance carried them across the polished floor, she noticed how often his compliments veered toward the personal—the light in her eyes, the way her presence commanded the room, how effortlessly she bore the weight of a hostess's duties. Charming, yes. But there was a glimmer in those peridot eyes that hinted at more than idle flattery.
She gave him a sidelong look, raising a brow. "Do you often charm women by praising their sense of duty?"
He leaned in slightly, grin widening. "No. Usually I charm them by praising their eyes." His gaze lingered openly on hers now, the aquamarine catching in the candlelight like water under sun. "Yours, for instance—clear, unwavering. Like the sea when it's calm enough to reveal all that lies beneath. Quite dangerous for a man like me, truth be told."
Lyra's composure didn't crack, though she felt heat stir in her cheeks. "And why dangerous, Lord Vale?"
"Because when one stares too long into waters that deep," he murmured, voice dipped low, "one risks drowning."
She let out the softest laugh, though it was tempered. "You speak as if you've made a study of it."
"Observation is my trade," he answered easily, spinning her through the turn with just enough flair to catch the eye of onlookers. "And forgive me, but I observe more than chandeliers and gowns. For example…" His voice dropped further, words threading into her ear, "this evening carries more purpose than revelry. You and your prince may think yourselves subtle, but I know the signs of an undertaking kept beneath silk and smiles."
"You speak boldly, Lord Vale," she said, her voice low.
Sethor's lips curved. "Boldness and perception are not crimes, Lady Lyra. And in times such as these, they may even be virtues."
Lyra's smile didn't falter, but she narrowed her eyes faintly. "And if you're wrong?"
"Then I've made a fool of myself in front of a very beautiful woman. Hardly the worst mistake I've ever made." His grin widened, flashing a disarming confidence that only made her pulse quicken further.
The song drew to its close, the final chords hanging in the air. Sethor guided her into the finishing step with effortless precision. Then, as the applause swelled once more, he caught her hand in his and bowed low. His lips brushed her knuckles in a kiss that lingered just enough to stir whispers among the crowd.
"Tell your prince," he whispered softly, just for her ears, "that I accept."
He knew. He had not guessed vaguely or blundered into some lucky assumption—he knew. The way he'd spoken, so precise, so certain, left little room for doubt. His peridot eyes had gleamed with amusement, yes, but beneath that was sharpness, the kind honed from years of listening between words. Lyra replayed his whisper over and over in her mind: Tell your prince that I accept.
Her stomach tightened. Was it arrogance, that confidence? Or a veiled promise of loyalty? Sethor Vale was not like the others crowding the floor, their wealth displayed in gemstones and laughter. His family had chosen service over title, and their intelligence guild had thrived because of it. He was a man raised not in the comfort of rank but in the razor edge of secrets. That made him useful and dangerous.
Too perceptive for comfort, she thought, watching him disappear smoothly into the throng, swallowed by silks and jewels as if he were part of neither world. And far too charming for his own good. The compliment about her eyes lingered more than she wanted to admit, irritating her with the way it unsettled her composure.
She exhaled slowly, reminding herself of her role. Smile. Hold steady. The guests must see nothing but poise.
From across the hall, she felt a gaze settle on her. Caelum, lounging at the edge of the dais where he played his part as the relaxed, gracious guest of honor, was watching her with the faintest hint of curiosity. To most, his expression would look casual—an heir amused by the evening's diversions. But Lyra had spent enough time near him to catch the subtle narrowing of his eyes, the flicker of calculation beneath the indolent mask. He had taken no new partner, instead standing near a column with a glass of wine in hand, the perfect picture of a guest of honor disinterested in the usual courtly games.
When she moved toward him, his lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. He inclined his head slightly as if greeting her anew, a subtle gesture to maintain the illusion of distance. Lyra drew near, dipping her chin in return, and murmured low enough for only him to hear.
"He knows."
Caelum's brow arched. "Does he, now?" His tone was smooth, almost amused, as though she had told him a guest had complimented the wine. But she could see the shift in his eyes, the narrowing of calculation behind the mask. "Quick, isn't he?" he said at last, his words layered with something that could have been approval—or warning.
Lyra frowned faintly. "Too quick, in fact, I worry what that could bring us."
Caelum's smile deepened, though it never touched his eyes. He set his glass aside, folding his hands loosely behind his back, posture still the very image of a man at ease. "Worry is good. It keeps us sharp. But remember, Lyra—our strength lies in gathering those who see beyond the surface. If he has already guessed at our game, then perhaps he is precisely the sort we need."
Lyra's aquamarine eyes sharpened. "You considered him? He all but declared himself chosen. Tell me, Caelum, was that by your design—or did he simply outplay us both?"
The prince chuckled softly, his voice low, laced with that infuriating calm. "Does it matter? A man with such wit and daring is precisely what you'll need at your side. The Spectres will not be felled by sword alone." He leaned slightly closer, his tone shifting from casual guest to calculating heir. "And if he can see through us this easily, imagine what he might see through them."
Lyra's pulse tightened again, though she held his gaze. Always so quick to make pieces fit the board, Caelum. But pieces with wills of their own have a way of tipping games into chaos.
Aloud, she murmured, "Then may the gods grant me patience, for it seems you've set me upon a path with a man who walks three steps ahead and makes certain you notice."
The music still thrummed behind her, muffled now by the thick walls of the manor as Lyra stepped through the tall doors and into the cool embrace of the night. The sudden hush of the garden wrapped around her like a cloak, a stark contrast to the dizzying hum of laughter, strings, and clinking goblets left behind. For the first time that evening, she drew a steadying breath that belonged to no one but herself.
She drew a quiet breath, the tension in her chest easing as she stepped further into the expanse. The gardens of Caelum's estate were not simply beautiful; they were curated as though each flowerbed, each statue, and each hedge were notes in a symphony, balanced perfectly between wild growth and human hand. The roses were heavy with bloom, their heads bent like courtiers whispering to one another, while the white lilies that lined the fountains seemed to shine even under starlight.
If Eryndal is a kingdom of courts and crowns, then this place is its dream, she thought, pausing near a statue of a winged youth poised mid-flight. Everything here is designed to dazzle and remind one of power. And yet, beneath all the marble and roses, it is peace I find most precious.
If only the affairs of men could be as simple as the tending of gardens. How effortless the flowers make beauty seem, how naturally they turn toward the light. But men twist themselves into shadow, into intrigue, until even grace becomes another mask to wear.
She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply, letting the perfume of roses fill her lungs. Still… if I am to endure the game Caelum plays, perhaps I must learn from these blooms. They do not fight the night—they thrive within it.
She tilted her head back, watching the stars wheel across the velvet sky, their cold fires reminding her of aquamarines scattered in black silk. A kingdom of splendor, a garden of statues, a ballroom of masks. And yet the sky, the stars—they are the only ones that do not pretend.
The music of the ball carried faintly across the courtyard, laughter rising and falling like distant waves. For the first time all evening, Lyra allowed her face to soften, her lips curving into a small, private smile meant for no one but herself. Here, the demands of hostess, the sharp edge of Sethor's words, and the weight of Caelum's careful gaze could be set aside, if only for a moment.
Lyra traced the outline of a marble column with her fingers, her thoughts wandering, when the faint crunch of footsteps along the gravel path made her pause. She turned her head, expecting perhaps a servant making rounds—or worse, a guest who had followed her out. Instead, a tall young man emerged from the dimness, his cloak drawn close against the night air.
He had an unassuming air, nothing of the polished courtier about him. His hair, a little tousled from the breeze, caught a glimmer of starlight, and his amber eyes—warm and steady even in shadow—stood out against the dark. He blinked when he saw her, then gave a polite half-smile, as though amused to find anyone else wandering so far from the music.
He paused as if surprised to find her there, then inclined his head politely.
"Forgive me," he said in a gentle tone, voice tinged with the cadence of a scholar rather than a courtier. "I didn't expect company out here. I thought I'd escaped the crowd for a moment."
Lyra offered a small, careful smile. "The garden seems to draw those in need of reprieve."
She tilted her head, studying him. His attire bore the cut of nobility, though it lacked the excess embellishment most favored. He wore it practically, as if he had dressed to meet a standard rather than to impress. Clearly a guest, yet not one who cared much for the posturing of court.
His gaze swept across the garden, pausing upon a bed of pale blossoms climbing a trellis. His expression softened, curiosity brightening his features. "These," he said, stepping closer to inspect them, "are moonflowers. They bloom only in the dark, opening when the sun dies away. Some healers swear by their tincture to calm fevers, though I've found it works better as a sleep aid—if you can manage the bitterness."
Lyra blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Few men at court would talk to a woman alone in a garden about remedies and tinctures. Most would flatter, boast, or flirt. He, instead, spoke with the absentminded delight of one who had forgotten the trappings of nobility.
"You're… quite knowledgeable," she said softly, her voice carrying more warmth than formality.
He smiled faintly, as though embarrassed by the compliment. "Ah, only because I make a habit of being curious. Every flower, every herb carries a story, if one is patient enough to listen. Take that laurel there"—he gestured toward the neatly trimmed bush near the statue she had admired earlier. "To most, it's decoration. To me, it's both salve and symbol. In poultices, it soothes aches. In crowns, it's worn by victors. Strange, isn't it, how a single plant can comfort both the body and the pride?"
Lyra found herself watching him with growing intrigue. He hadn't asked her name, hadn't offered his, and yet he spoke to her as though she were simply another guest seeking quiet. No weight of expectation, no veiled insinuations—just… conversation.
"You speak as though you've studied long and far," she remarked, curiosity of her own sparking.
His amber eyes flicked toward her, catching the gleam of her aquamarine gaze in the starlight. For a moment, something like a smile tugged at his lips, subtle and honest. "Perhaps. I've been fortunate to learn wherever the road takes me. Books in some places, healers in others, even a grandmother in a small village who swore garlic kept the wicked at bay. Every tale, no matter how small, has its value."
Lyra's chest tightened faintly—not with unease, but with something more elusive. He had no idea who she was, and yet here they stood, conversing like strangers under the stars. She almost wished to keep it that way a little longer.
"Most at the ball tonight would find this talk… unremarkable," she said.
"And yet here you are, not turning away," he replied lightly. "That already makes you unusual among them."
His words lingered in the night air, gentle but weighted. She found herself smiling, though she quickly turned her face toward the roses to hide it. Unusual. If only he knew.
He then moved past the moonflowers with the eager gait of someone who had stumbled into a library disguised as a garden. His amber eyes shone as he crouched before a row of herbs tucked neatly near the gravel path, speaking as though he were addressing the plants themselves rather than Lyra.
"Ah—see this here?" He brushed his fingers lightly over the serrated leaves of a modest shrub. "Valerian. Most overlook it because it doesn't look remarkable, but steep the root, and you have a draught that coaxes sleep even in the most restless souls. Stronger than moonflower, less bitter… though, if taken too often, it leaves one sluggish in mind." He gave a little shake of his head, muttering more to himself than to her. "Useful in the right dose, disastrous otherwise."
Before Lyra could interject, he had already shifted toward a patch of foxglove, its tall stalks trembling faintly in the night breeze. His expression grew sharper, almost reverent. "Now this—deadly, if you misuse it. Foxglove's beautiful, isn't it? Bells the color of spilled wine. But inside those bells is the power to still a heart. Yet—" he lifted one finger, as though lecturing a class, "—distilled properly, it strengthens the same heart it threatens. Such is the cruelty of nature, that poison and cure so often wear the same face."
Lyra bit back a small laugh. He hadn't even asked who she was, nor seemed to notice. Instead, he was utterly enthralled by the garden's secrets, as if every leaf whispered its knowledge to him and he had no choice but to repeat it aloud.
He had moved again, this time toward a creeping vine coiling up the base of a marble column. "Hellebore," he murmured, brushing a finger near its dark leaves. "Most would tell you it's cursed, tied to ill omens. But did you know that, in the smallest of doses, it can quiet madness? I've read of physicians who claim it tames wild tempers, though too much will kill a man faster than foxglove. I tried once to see if its vapors alone held any sway—nearly fainted. Not a mistake I care to repeat." He laughed at himself, unbothered.
Lyra blinked at him, a smile tugging her lips despite herself. He spoke without guile, without pretense—completely unaware how strange he must appear, rambling about roots and remedies instead of remarking upon her gown, or her jewel eyes like every other man inside the ballroom.
Then he was up again, pointing toward another hedge. "Laurel, of course—yes, you must already know. Not just crowns and triumphs. Did you know it eases chest pains when ground into a salve? Most nobles wear it for glory; few realize they could brew it for medicine. Curious, isn't it, how symbolism blinds us to utility?"
He crouched near a small patch of night-blooming jasmine, brushing the leaves with reverence. "Now this—ah, it is a trickster. Its fragrance soothes the restless, yet its oils, taken improperly, can make one ill. Too much, and it wracks the stomach. Too little, and it does nothing. Balance, always balance." He paused, glancing back over his shoulder as though to share a secret. "Once, while traveling in the border provinces, a healer told me she mixed jasmine with honey to lull children into sleep. But she warned never to mix it with poppy, lest the child never wake again. Imagine, comfort and danger from the same fragile blossom."
And lo, he was not finished. He rose and strolled toward a bed of vibrant marigolds, his words spilling with fresh enthusiasm. "Marigold—ah, the humble sun-bringer. Soldiers scoff at its bright little face, but smear its crushed petals upon a wound, and you'll see it stave off infection. I once carried a pouch of dried marigolds across half a province. Saved more men than I could count. And yet…" He tilted his head, voice lowering with wry humor. "Try to offer marigold to a noblewoman and she'll think you've handed her a weed. Such is the fate of the practical things in life."
Lyra found a laugh slipping from her, soft and unguarded.
The man looked at her as though suddenly reminded she was there, then smiled faintly, not with embarrassment but with the satisfaction of sharing something he loved. He did not ask her name. He did not offer his. Instead, his gaze flicked back to the greenery with renewed fervor.
"And there," he continued, gesturing toward a creeping vine with clusters of pale berries. "Deadly nightshade. Even in the darkness, its fruit gleams like little moons. Beautiful, isn't it? A beauty laced with peril. One berry is enough to bring delirium, three to end a life. But in the right hands, diluted… it dulls pain. A cruel paradox, poison turned medicine." He straightened, amber eyes catching the faint starlight. "It reminds me often that nothing in nature is wholly wicked or wholly kind. It is our choices, our care—or our carelessness—that decide the difference."
The night seemed to still around him, his voice carrying easily over the rustle of the hedges. Lyra could not help but marvel at his unguarded passion, the way he filled the silence of the garden with lore that few at court would ever care to know.
He spoke, and spoke, and spoke—as though the plants themselves were companions, and she merely another wanderer who happened to pause long enough to listen. He chuckled quietly, amber eyes catching a sliver of starlight. "You see why I wander gardens at night? They're safer company than people. Plants never pretend to be what they're not. They tell you plainly, if you know how to listen."
Lyra stood a pace behind him, her aquamarine eyes fixed on his profile, both amused and intrigued. He had spoken for what felt like a quarter of an hour, never once asking her name, never offering his own, utterly lost in his subject. Finally, she allowed herself a small smile and spoke.
"You know more of this garden than the gardeners themselves," she said lightly. "One could almost mistake you for its keeper."
He then blinked, as if pulled from a reverie. Slowly, he turned to her, and for the first time his gaze lingered—not on leaf or flower, but on her. There was no embarrassment in his expression, only warmth and curiosity.
"Forgive me," he said, laughter under his breath. "I must have seemed insufferable, prattling on while you humored me. But… knowledge is an untamed thing. Once I start, I cannot seem to leash it."
She shook her head softly. "On the contrary. Few men can speak so long without pretense. Your knowledge is… vast. And your passion for it, clear."
His mouth quirked into a crooked smile. "You are kind to say so. My mother was the one who first taught me. She had a healer's eye—saw every herb not as a weed to be cut, but as a story waiting to be understood. My father filled my head with books and numerous languages, but she filled my hands with soil and leaves. Between the two of them, I suppose I became what I am."
He inclined his head in a belated gesture of courtesy, his amber eyes glinting as though he only just remembered himself. "Kael Ardin," he said simply. "Son of a noble scholar and an herbalist, and a poor guest for having forgotten his manners. At your service."
She dipped her chin gracefully, the faintest curve of amusement tugging at her lips. "Lyraelle Althain," she said, her voice soft but steady. "Second daughter of Chancellor Althain."
Kael froze as though someone had struck him with a spell. His amber eyes widened, darting to her face as if to confirm that she was serious. For a heartbeat he simply stood there, caught between disbelief and dawning realization, his thoughts visibly colliding with one another.
"It seems I have outdone myself tonight," he said with a rueful smile. "I managed to speak endlessly about flowers and roots, yet neglected the courtesy of recognizing my company. A poor impression to leave upon someone of your standing." He inclined his head more deeply this time, sincerity woven into the gesture. "You have my apology, Lady Lyraelle. Had I known, I would not have prattled on so thoughtlessly."
Lyra tilted her head, watching him scramble. The aquamarine of her eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight, betraying her delight at his disarray. "And what of it?" she asked gently. "Would you have spared me your wisdom had you known who I was?"
Kael blinked, his flustered expression softening. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish but recovering. "Perhaps I would have spoken less… at length. Or remembered to introduce myself properly, at the very least." Then, after a pause, his crooked smile returned. "But no. I suspect the plants would have demanded their stories be told, no matter your name. And I—well, I'm poor at denying them."
Lyra raised a brow, the corners of her lips tugging upward despite her efforts to remain solemn. His flustered honesty was disarming—refreshing, even.
Kael drew a steadying breath, shoulders straightening as he gathered himself like a man resetting a chessboard after knocking over all the pieces. When he spoke again, his voice carried the composure of a scholar returning to familiar ground, though the faint warmth of embarrassment lingered in his tone.
She laughed softly, not mocking but genuinely entertained by the way he shifted from learned scholar to embarrassed gentleman in so short a span. For all his earlier certainty, Kael Ardin was clearly no courtier, and in that there was something endearing.
He seemed to realize as much himself, running a hand through his dark hair as though trying to physically smooth away his awkwardness. "In any case," he said, steadier now, "I am glad that chance led me here. Whether speaking to a guest or to the Chancellor's daughter, I have enjoyed this walk."
Kael straightened at last, as though having finally reined in the whirlwind of embarrassment that had battered him. He smoothed a hand over the lapel of his coat, his composure settling into something more deliberate, more careful. The faint lantern light caught in his amber eyes, steady now, as he inclined his head toward her with a hint of the gallantry expected of a nobleman.
"Perhaps," he began carefully, "I might offer to walk you back to the ball, Lady Lyraelle. It would not do for you to return alone through the gardens at this hour." For a moment, it sounded every inch the gallant courtesy of a gentleman. But then, as though the implications belatedly struck him, he faltered—his words snagging on themselves like fabric catching on thorns. His amber eyes darted aside, faint color returning to his cheeks. "Though—ah—of course, if we were seen arriving together after… lingering here, some might find cause to whisper." His mouth tightened, as if the thought had soured on his tongue. "I would not want to create even the smallest rumor at your expense."
Lyraelle tilted her head, regarding him with an expression balanced delicately between intrigue and amusement. His awkward honesty was worlds away from the rehearsed charm of most men in court, and it fascinated her.
Kael cleared his throat, backtracking with visible effort. "Then… perhaps it would be better if I remained behind a few minutes, and you returned first." He gave a short, self-deprecating chuckle, as if trying to downplay the awkwardness. "Yes—that way no misunderstanding could arise."
But scarcely had the words left him than another thought pressed forward, tripping him again. He shifted his weight, amber eyes flicking back to hers with a searching look.
"Unless," he added quickly, "you prefer to remain in the garden longer. In that case, I could… I could take my leave first. That way you may enjoy your peace without concern that someone else might chance upon us and leap to conclusions."
Lyraelle's lips curved, caught between the urge to laugh and the decorum of restraint. He was so earnestly tangled in his own courtesy that she couldn't help but admire him for it. Few men of court would have hesitated to escort her back, no matter the talk it invited—they would have considered it a badge of honor. Yet here was Kael Ardin, weighing every word for the sake of her reputation.
Lyra's smile softened, a gentle curve that carried none of the mockery Kael might have feared. She inclined her head slightly, her eyes bright with amusement but tempered with warmth.
"You need not trouble yourself so much on my account, Master Ardin," she said, her tone even and reassuring. "All is quite fine. I think I shall return to the manor first, so that you may enjoy the gardens at your leisure without concern."
Kael blinked, taken aback both by her graciousness and by the unflappable calm with which she dismissed his fumbling worries. She, however, did not linger on his surprise. Instead, she glanced over her shoulder toward the winding path, where faint lantern-light glimmered through the hedges, marking the way back to the ball.
"But," she added lightly, her gaze returning to him, "should you find yourself still admiring the flowers and their properties until late into the night, do not feel compelled to ride back at such an hour. The manor has no shortage of guest rooms, and you would be welcome to remain. Simply ask a servant when the ball ends, and they will see you settled."
Her words were delivered with effortless composure, yet there was a subtle kindness in them, a reassurance that his presence here—strange though it may be to some—was neither inconvenient nor unwelcome.
Kael opened his mouth, then hesitated, searching for the proper reply. A faint flush lingered on his face, but he bowed his head with renewed steadiness, the awkwardness giving way to something more genuine. "You are… very gracious, my lady. I shall not impose, but your thoughtfulness is more than I deserve."
Lyra's lips curved again, and she dipped a small curtsey—more out of playful courtesy than strict formality. "Then I bid you enjoy the gardens, Master Ardin. Good evening."
Kael stood still for a long moment, watching her retreating figure with a furrow of thought across his brow, before glancing back at the moonlit roses near his hand. The garden was suddenly quieter without her, yet his mind was anything but.
The warm hum of music and laughter greeted Lyraelle as she stepped back into the ballroom, the polished marble floor reflecting the glow of crystal chandeliers overhead. Couples spun in graceful arcs across the dance floor, their silks and satins catching the light like flowing jewels, while servants wove discreetly between clusters of guests with trays of wine and sugared confections. She slipped back into the familiar rhythm of her role as hostess—smiling, nodding, exchanging a few words here and there—but her mind remained tethered to the quiet garden and the odd yet disarmingly earnest man she had left behind.
Her aquamarine eyes swept across the hall, searching briefly for Caelum's unmistakable figure among the gathering of nobles. The crown prince was deep in conversation with several high-ranking lords, his composure as sharp and precise as ever, though she noticed how his gaze flickered from time to time toward the crowd, quietly measuring those around him.
Perhaps, she mused inwardly, her lips curving into the faintest of private smiles, Caelum would not object if I suggested bringing along a scholar… especially one with knowledge that walks both the path of courtly learning and the road of the common folk.
Kael Ardin's words about the garden plants echoed in her thoughts—the way he spoke of roots that soothed fevers, blossoms that calmed grief, and leaves that, if used carelessly, could turn medicine into poison. His manner had been rough-edged, yes, but his knowledge was undeniable, and more than that, it was practical.
It would come in handy, she admitted to herself, glancing at the polished goblet in her hand as though she could see the thought reflected there. If not in the field of battle, then in the quiet hours after it, when wounds must be tended and strength restored. And perhaps his skill with languages would spare us many unnecessary misunderstandings abroad.
Straightening, she set down her goblet, her decision quietly forming like a thread pulled taut. For now, she would resume her duties among the guests, but the thought lingered like a promise: before long, she would speak to Caelum.
Her smile returned, gracious and bright as another noble approached her, but deep within, her thoughts remained fixed on amber eyes, quiet gardens, and the unexpected possibilities they carried.