The Garden
The roses are dead. Every petal lies scattered across the cracked stone path, brittle as ash beneath my boots. I don’t mourn them. The garden has always been a lie, its beauty a prison, its thorns invisible until they draw blood. And I’ve bled enough, trying to keep them alive.
I trace my fingers along the jagged edge of a shriveled stem. Ten years of tending, watering, and weeding, of kneeling in the dirt until my knees bruised—and for what? The roses are as dead as the woman who planted them.
Back when the world still made sense, Kat and I would run barefoot through the blooms while Mother hummed at her bench, waiting for Father to return home from the city. That was before grief hollowed him out. Before ambition overtook love.
Now the damn plants defy spring. The garden’s stark shades of gray clash against the vibrant pastels of the world beyond. Out there, new life moves steadily forward—green shoots breaking through the soil, wildflowers blooming along the forest’s edge, wind stirring the grass as the soft lowing of cows and the whinnies of mares heavy with calves and foals drift on the breeze.
But inside this stone-ringed ruin, only ash and silence remain.
Over the years, our small, modest farm has become one of the biggest ranches in Solmere, sitting near the forested foothills at the base of the mountains, surrounded by wide stretches of farmland less than ten miles from Veyora, the capital. Father worked there as an assistant to the Council of Solmere, serving under one of its most beloved members—a man everyone assumed would hold his seat until death.
When I was little, and Kat was still a toddler, Mother suggested we move to the city to be closer to Father’s work. At the time, our farm was modest, the herd small—land that had belonged to her family for generations. But Father knew how deeply she loved the countryside and insisted we stay. He said the commute was worth it, if it meant seeing her—seeing us—happy.
He would’ve done anything for us back then.
Before she died. Before the whiskey. Before he traded the quiet joys of a simple life for greed and prominence.
Those first years after her death, there was rarely a night Father didn’t come home consumed by grief, tearing the house apart in an attempt to destroy everything that reminded him of her. Kat—only eleven, still a child—was our mother’s mirror image: raven hair, smoky blue eyes. I feared the sight of her would enrage him further, so I kept her hidden and took the brunt of his temper myself.
Unlike my sister, I don’t resemble either of our parents. Mother always said I took after her grandmother, Rose—that I inherited her wild red hair, even wilder temper, and hazel-green eyes my sister swears glow when I’m angry. I understand anger. I understood my father’s. I learned quickly how to keep his bottle full and stay out of his way. I was eighteen, old enough to keep the ranch going without him.
On the worst nights, we escaped into our mother’s garden, taking comfort in the sweet scent of her roses as if Mother’s spirit lingered in their blooms, refusing to leave us entirely.
When Father remarried, we were forced into the city—into the life he had already decided we would live. I stayed longer than I wanted to, for Kat. I tried to belong.
When my defiance finally became impossible to hide, he disowned me publicly to save his reputation. I let him, glad to leave his corrupt world behind and return to the ranch—to the quiet and honesty of the countryside.
My only regret was leaving Kat behind.
I made my mother two promises when she died: to keep her garden alive and to protect my sister.
I failed both.
The scar on my back pulses in a familiar ache, a burn long healed but never forgotten. It always flares near the Bloodmoon, as if it remembers before I do. A painful reminder of all that this cruel world has taken from me.
I tighten my grip on the dagger and grit my teeth as I use all my strength to uproot the rotted bush. When I finally succeed, I toss the remains onto the growing pile beside me. I glance down at the dagger in my hand. Its hilt—engraved with our family crest, a winged stallion—presses coolly into my burning palm. Once, it was a symbol of pride, of a bloodline tied to the ancient Pegasus herds of Abrellia. In those days, magical creatures still existed, and my ancestors trained the mighty winged steeds forroyal courts long since buried. Now it’s just a relic. A memory of a past that no longer belongs to us. Much like this garden.
I make quick work of the remaining roots and tear out the third and final bush of the evening, realizing I’ll have to clear out the rest tomorrow.
The iron gate groans like a warning beneath my touch as I leave. I make a mental note to have it oiled and head home.
Inside, the house is still. I kick off my boots at the door. Shadows stretch across the floors. A fire crackles low in the other room.
I pass the old armchair, empty now. No father slumped in it, no bottle hanging limply from his fingers. That ghost is gone, replaced by a shrewd, strict councilman who can tolerate my presence but once every two years.
No matter. I buried what little love I retained for him years ago, alongside my mother.
After washing away the dirt and grime of the day, I change into comfortable linen pants and a loose tunic, then make my way to the kitchen. Miss Mable, our cook, has left some stew on the stove. I serve myself a generous helping and take the mug of peppermint tea waiting beside it before heading outside to watch the sunset.
Dusk drapes the land in velvet shadows, an omen of the darkness dawn will bring. I return to the garden and sit on Mother’s favorite bench, where the scent of ash lingers beneath the soil.
“I knew I’d find you here.” Barefoot, wind-tossed, wild-eyed. She’s wearing a sunflower-yellow dress smudged with dirt. Her eyes glow softly as the last light kisses her freckled cheeks. She looks so much like Mother that it hurts.
“Kat!” I set my bowl aside and jump up to embrace her. “’Bout time you came to visit. Two months too long.”
“I know. Father’s been keeping me busy with his campaign for reelection.”
