“It’s been postponed,” Marb answers distractedly as she alights on the bedside table and begins meticulously organizingmy breakfast, laying an orange slice on a napkin next to a scone, a single poached egg, and a glass of milk.
“What? Why?” I blink in surprise. “Until when?”
“Tonight,” she chirps, ignoring all but the last question. “May I help you dress, my lady?”
I nod, though I’m no less lost. Postponed? But the entire keep must have been preparing for this night for days. Whoever this cursed king is, his every whim is obeyed without warning or hesitation. And it’s clear that no one dares question his reasoning.
I spend most of the day wandering the keep, exploring the grounds, and searching the gardens for the infuriating bastard who gave me a tea that only dragged me deeper into my nightmares.
By late afternoon, exhaustion finally wins, and I manage to get a few hours of real sleep. But dreaming in daylight only makes it harder to rest once night falls.
Hours later, I’m lying in bed, wide awake. Despite the plush pillows and velvet sheets, I can’t settle in. I toss and turn. My skin still prickles with residual magic, my muscles ache in unfamiliar ways, and my mind won’t stop reeling.
I need air. Space. Silence that doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in on all sides.
So I slip barefoot into the corridor and let the night swallow me whole.
The keep is too warm, too quiet. The chatting and laughter of the other brides is dampened behind closed doors. They seem content to stay in, but my room feels more like a gilded prison than a lavish refuge. I’m not used to such luxuries, but they also don’t impress me. I see them for what they really are. Nothinghere feels real; nothing smells like home, like horses and hay and herds of cattle.
I drift down the empty hallways through an archway veiled in ivy and wander into the gardens, where moonlight bathes the world in silver. It hangs low in the sky, half-hidden behind the mist, its glow catching on twisted iron trellises and crumbling statues. Vines strangle old marble. Wild roses spill across gravel paths like blood. The scent of dew and rot clings to everything.
It’s haunting—and heartbreakingly beautiful.
I meander past rose bushes and overgrown herbs until the thorns give way to something strange: a stretch of garden still alive. No, not just alive.Thriving. Lush green leaves, heavy blooms in jewel-toned hues, moss-covered benches untouched by decay. The contrast is jarring.
“Looks like the tea didn’t work,” comes a voice behind me.
I spin around, eyes wide.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, Fire.” A warm smile darts across his lips.
The nickname should feel flippant. But there’s a kind of reverence in it, a gentle hush behind the teasing tone, as though the word itself means something sacred.
I straighten, heart still pounding. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Neither was I,” he says, smiling faintly.
He kneels beside a bed of wild thistle and begins trimming the overgrowth with deliberate care. He moves like someone born of the earth itself, patient and grounded. Yet everything about him feels like danger dressed in a quiet disguise.
As the silence grows, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Your tea is awful.”
He chuckles. “Clearly.”
Embarrassed, I stare hard at the roses, searching for something else to say. “Why are these gardens thriving while the rest of the keep seems to be crumbling?” I ask.
He plucks a vibrant red rose and offers it to me. I take it, and the scent drags me back to my mother’s garden. To sunlit mornings with Kat. To a safety I haven’t felt in years.
My throat tightens. I look down, clutching the bloom like an anchor. “Thank you,” I whisper, turning to leave, to escape the swell of emotion I didn’t come here to feel. The rose trembles in my grasp. I should walk away before such a small act of kindness completely undoes me.
“You volunteered, didn’t you?”
I stiffen. “Word travels fast,” I reply evasively.
He chuckles. “When you live in a cursed castle populated with less than a hundred souls, yes, word travels fast.” His tone is light, but something in it intrigues me. A faint bitterness, like he knows too well how gossip can commandeer the truth.
“What can you tell me about the king’s curse?” I ask. “No one’s given me a straight answer. And with the ball getting delayed, I need to know what I’m up against.”
He pauses mid-motion, his fingers still brushing the soil.
