Gasps echo through the hall as the illusion collapses.
Where a man stood moments ago now hovers aradiant, winged fairy, no taller than three feet, skin glowing like hammered sunlight, gossamer wings beating in frantic bursts.
“Y-Your Majesty,” he stammers, darting backward midair. His voice is suddenly thin and chiming.
Recognition ripples through the court as they take stock of the sparkling crown atop his head.
A fairy prince?
Keiren’s fury is incandescent. “Reverse your spell.”
The fairy bows sharply in the air, wings flickering. “Forgive me,” he squeaks. “I meant no harm.My mother wished to know if the final Chosen was true of heart.”
The words land like a struck match.
“Truth,” Keiren repeats coldly, “is not determined by deception.”
The fairy swallows. “We only wished to see if she would chase power… or remain herself.”
Silence stretches—tight, dangerous.
Keiren steps forward, every inch a king.
“There will beno more testing her,” he says, voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “Not by you. Not by your mother. Not by anyone.” He turns, gaze sweeping the room. “The festivities have concluded.Leave. Now.”
The magic recoils. Lanterns dim. Fairies scatter like startled sparks.
Heat floods my face. My chest tightens.
Before anyone can speak, I turn and flee—past marble pillars and stunned guests—into the night, roses and moonlight drawing me toward the garden’s quiet shadows.
I slipped through the moonlit roses, their crimson buds trembling against the thorns. I reach to coax one open and yelp as a thorn bites deep into my palm. Warm blood wells against my skin.
“Don’t you know better than to force a flower open, Fire?”
I spin around, cheeks aflame. Keiren is standing at the garden’s edge, cloak pooling like shadows around him.
“Once again, Your Highness, you succeed in startling me.”
He steps closer, gaze unwavering. “If you try to make a bud bloom before it’s time, you’ll kill it.” Another step. “You’ve been avoiding me all night.”
I press my wounded hand against my side, voice brittle. “I wonder why.”
The space I try to keep only collapses beneath his gaze as he gently takes my injured hand and lifts it to his lips. I gasp as he kisses the scratch with such reverence that I almost forget the sting. The echo of his warmth lingers on my lips. Then he pulls a strip of silk from his cloak and wraps my finger, gently tying the makeshift bandage.
His other hand brushes stray curls from my face, his fingers lingering at my temple. “Beautiful,” he whispers again, eyes dark as storm clouds. He leans in and brings my hand to his lips, grazing each knuckle with feather-light kisses.
A soft snap draws my gaze. In his other hand is a different rose, already in full bloom.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, averting my eyes. “And dangerous. Like me.”
He smiles, and something flutters in my chest. I watch as he pinches away each thorn with his bare fingers. Not one pricks him.
“Every rose has thorns,” he says softly, leaning closer as he tucks the bloom behind my ear.
I close my eyes and breathe in his familiar scent. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from him.
“You are light and warmth,” he murmurs, pausing as his lips brush my ear, his breath like silk against my skin.
