“What?” I say, giving her my full attention.
“He returned, informed the court, and then left again before anyone could protest. He said it would be smaller this time. More… selective.”
“The Second Trial,” Vivian says, sobering. “It will be announced soon.”
I nod. “I can feel it.”
“But first, Fire,” Mariel adds, already heading for the door, “you need a bath.”
“Desperately,” Cassy agrees. “You reek of horse.”
“Come on,” Vivian says with mock ceremony. “Let us be your handmaidens, bearing gifts of soap and perfume.”
I roll my eyes but follow them back to my bedchamber.
A week passes, and Keiren is still nowhere to be found. The silence gnaws at me more than the memory of his kiss ever could. One moment, he was fire against my mouth, pulling meclose as though the world might end without it—and the next, he vanished like smoke. No summons. No sightings. Nothing but empty corridors and unanswered questions.
Elena and Seraphina make their dismay known, their complaints dripping like poisoned honey. The daily rotation has stopped entirely—no dinners, no audiences, no carefully staged moments meant to remind us we are seen.
Cassian told me days ago, in a low voice meant to reassure, that the king is occupied with matters of state. That the Bound Four have been traveling constantly between the regions, summoned back and forth without pause. He said it was as if something had shifted after the forest—as though Keiren had returned changed, quieter, burdened in a way Cassian had never seen before.
Even Vivian ventures her guesses in a trembling voice, wondering aloud if he’s forgotten us.
I keep silent.
Inside me, confusion coils with anger until it feels like a blade beneath my ribs. Did he play me for a fool? Am I only something to be taken and set aside once his curiosity is satisfied?
And yet—though the thought stings—I understand. If he is truly ruling now, truly stepping into the weight of his crown, then perhaps this silence is the cost. Perhaps he is out there doing what kings are meant to do. The idea doesn’t ease the ache, but it steadies it.
I refuse to waste myself on wanting him. Instead, I turn my thoughts to survival—to uncovering whatever truth I can about the Trial we all know is coming.
Every morning, a flower waits at my door. Sometimes two. Never with a note—just a single bloom laid at the threshold, dewy and perfect, as though the keep itself has chosen me for its offerings.
Some I recognize. Red camellia—a confession of desire, a symbol of secret longing. Snapdragon—a warning of deception. Others are strangers to me, curling in shapes I can’t name, carrying foreign perfumes that haunt me throughout the day.
He does not write. He does not come.
But the flowers never stop.
On the third morning, I gather the blooms and march to the library, daring its shelves to mock me.
A book falls at my feet the moment I demand answers, its title pressed in fading gold:The Language of Flowers.The pages list meanings in delicate script, bordered by blossoms painted with aching precision. I devour the entries, tracing the clues as if each petal hides a message meant only for me.
I should feel clever. I should feel triumphant. Instead, I feel watched. Desired. Each bloom feels like a whisper at my door, a hand that aches to reach for me but cannot.
I carry the book to the desk by the window and sink into the chair, setting it carefully before me as though it might bite.
My gaze drifts to the flowers I’ve kept pressed between the pages of my journal. I pull it closer, untie the ribbon, and begin where instinct tells me to start—not with what they mean, but when they came.
I write them down in the order I received them, my pen scratching softly across the page.
Belladonna. Foxglove. Snapdragon. Edelweiss.
My breath slows.
As I turn deeper into the book, something catches my eye—ink darker than the rest, set apart from the surrounding text. Not a definition. Not a footnote.
An inscription.
