The punishment was not loud.
No voices were raised.
No guards were summoned.
Nothing was recorded in the ledgers.
Jon knelt by the flowerbeds,
his hands covered in soil,
his breaths ragged, as if the very air had grown heavier.
He was not afraid at first.
The flower had withered—yes.
But that happens.
Nature does not always obey.
The king stood at a short distance.
Not close enough to be a threat,
not far enough to be absent.
He stared at the flower for longer than necessary.
Jon whispered, — "Your Majesty… the soil changed this week. I tried—"
The king raised his hand slightly.
Not to silence him harshly,
but as if stopping a thought that was unnecessary.
— "I said it was his favorite flower."
There was no anger in the statement.
No reproach.
It was a report.
Jon swallowed. — "I know, Your Majesty. That's why I've done all I—"
The king leaned in slightly, examining the flower up close. — "Everything has its time."
He said it quietly.
Then straightened. — "And the time for this flower… has ended."
Jon did not understand immediately.
Nor was he meant to, just yet.
He watched the king leave,
his steps steady,
as if the matter had been settled from the start.
An hour later,
the king was in his office.
Light seeped through the high windows,
fracturing on the dark wood,
and the calm here… was always calculated.
Morven stood before the desk, holding a thin file. — "Your Majesty… regarding the gardener."
The king did not lift his gaze. — "Move him."
Morven paused, raising his head slowly. — "Move him… where?"
— "The back garden of the annex."
Morven froze.
It was a place unused.
Unvisited.
A neglected garden,
no flowers,
no soil fit for anything but silence.
— "But… Jon is tied to the gardens, Your Majesty."
He spoke without thinking, then realized his boldness.
— "It's his work. His life."
The king finally looked at him.
He was neither angry
nor scowling.
He looked at him as a man looks at another he has known for a long time. — "Exactly."
Morven fell silent, then asked cautiously, — "Did he commit a greater mistake than we know?"
The king closed the pen he had been holding. — "No."
— "Then why?"
A short silence. Then the king said, — "Because things that are defined by only one purpose…"
He paused. — "Collapse when that purpose is taken from them."
He added nothing more. No protest.
Morven lowered his gaze. — "As you command, Your Majesty."
And when he turned to leave, the king said, — "Morven."
He stopped. — "Do not ask me about this again."
It was neither a threatening tone
nor a harsh command.
It was the end of the conversation.
Morven bowed and left.
The king remained alone,
staring at an empty space in his office,
as if something… had withered there too.
He did not understand why Jon felt the flower was not the only target.
Celebration Day
The king stood by the tall window,
not truly looking outside,
but at the reflection of the hall in the glass.
Three light knocks on the door,
then it opened.
Thorne entered.
Morven did not turn to him immediately.
He had come to pay his respects, as the rest of the court did.
He did not enjoy parties,
so he had chosen to arrive early.
— "Greetings, Your Majesty Morven.
Today marks three hundred and ninety-seven years since the founding of this great kingdom…"
Stock phrases.
Familiar.
Said hundreds of times before.
The king spoke, and Thorne still saw only his back: — "Thank you, Baron Thorne."
Then, in a quiet voice, closer to a private conversation than a royal command: — "You will not attend the celebration tonight."
There was no cruelty in the statement.
No test.
It was closer to informing someone who knew too much about you.
Thorne nodded lightly. — "I understand."
The king finally turned.
He looked at him directly.
It was not the gaze of a lord to a subordinate…
but of one man to another who knew his weight.
— "You do not like these occasions."
Thorne gave a small, barely visible smile. — "Nor do they like me, Your Majesty."
If anyone else had said it, it would have been insolence.
But the king exhaled lightly, as if he understood what was left unsaid.
— "Yet… it has drawn attention."
He paused, then added in a less formal tone: — "Granting a title to a common man… does not go unnoticed."
Thorne lifted his gaze this time.
Neither in defiance,
nor in false humility.
— "I am well aware of that."
Then he said, honestly: — "Which is precisely why I do not wish to be part of the spectacle."
A brief silence followed.
Not the silence of distance…
but the silence of understanding.
The king took a step closer.
Not a royal step.
A step of a man who knows what he says.
— "You know they will not forgive your rise."
He said it without warning. Without pity. As a fact.
— "And I know they will not forget."
Thorne answered calmly. — "But that does not mean I should celebrate it."
The king looked at him for a long moment.
In that instant, he did not see a weakly titled noble,
nor an outsider,
but something more dangerous:
a man who did not ask for what he had gained…
yet knew its price.
— "Then do not attend."
He added, in a softer voice: — "Not because they do not want you there…"
He paused. Then continued: — "But because I do not want them to think you are one of them."
Thorne raised an eyebrow slightly. — "Am I?"
The king smiled lightly.
Not a royal smile.
— "No."
He said it simply. — "And that is what annoys them."
Thorne bowed briefly.
Not deeply.
Not submissively.
— "Thank you… for your honesty."
He turned to leave.
And as he placed his hand on the door handle, the king spoke suddenly, in a lighter tone: — "Thorne."
He stopped.
— "Some men save kings…"
He said slowly,
— "Then forget they ever did."
Thorne did not turn. — "And some kings…"
He said from where he stood,
— "Remember more than they should."
Silence followed.
Then the king, as if the thought had just occurred to him: — "By the way…"
Thorne's body stiffened slightly.
His instinct reacted before his mind.
— "You should introduce me to your family someday."
The king said it in a semi-friendly, casual tone.
Then added, without giving him time to respond: — "I already know your wife."
Thorne's shoulders tightened involuntarily.
The king continued with a faint smile: — "You should be proud of her."
Then, in a lower voice: — "Or at least… careful with her."
A short silence. Short enough not to be a threat,
but long enough to feel its weight.
— "She is… remarkable."
It was not pure praise.
Nor a sentence to be ignored.
Thorne gritted his teeth. — "Cyllis is not something to be defined… or possessed, Your Majesty."
The king's face did not change. He just smiled.
— "That is why I said remarkable."
Thorne opened the door.
Before leaving, he said without looking back: — "I will be careful with her."
He paused for a fraction of a second, then added: — "As I was careful with you…
on the day no one else was."
The door closed quietly.
The king remained alone,
staring at a place where no one remained,
and realized—slightly late—
that some jests…
are unforgettable.
The hall was lit brighter than necessary.
Music was soft,
faces composed,
and laughter measured as if rehearsed.
Cyllis stood near a column, carrying a tray nobody truly needed.
Everything was present…
except one thing.
She did not notice it at first.
Then she understood:
It was not the absence of a person…
but the absence of a feeling.
As if she were standing in a place meant to be safe,
but was no longer so.
She whispered, in a voice no one heard: — "I miss home."
The air outside was colder.
Cleaner.
But it did not calm anything.
Thorne walked without a destination,
as if his feet knew the way better than he did.
At the palace gate, he stopped.
His face tightened for a moment,
not in anger…
but as one who realizes something too late.
"Remarkable."
The word was neither flattery
nor a threat.
It was something worse.
He remembered the king's tone.
The calm.
The familiarity.
As if he were speaking about something… that belonged to him.
Thorne clenched his fist.
The danger was not in the celebration.
Nor in the title.
But that the king
no longer saw boundaries.
He breathed slowly.
If he noticed it…
others would.
And this time,
it was no longer an assumption.
The danger
had arriv.