Her expression softens as she reads my face. “I’ll bring you more tea.”
I shake my head, more forcefully than I intend to. “No, no more tea. Please.”
She gives me a solemn little nod, wings drooping, and disappears in a blur of green light.
I sigh and make my way back to my room, where I sink back into the velvet soft covers. I hate to disappoint her, but there really isn’t anything she can do. I stare out the window, praying for rest.Realrest, like the kind that comes after a long day of mucking stalls or fixing fences or hauling water, the exhaustion that drags you into dreamless sleep.
Outside, the light shifts. The palace breathes. And deep beneath it all, I feel the storm coming.
I sleep the day away, dreaming of the dragon. Of the vision in the garden. Of the mysterious gardener who wanders this cursed keep, bound, like all the others, to a monster. For a fleeting moment, I imagine what it might be like to be protected by those steady hands. To have someone like him fight for me.Withme.
Under different circumstances, in another lifetime, maybe I could’ve had something like peace. But that dream shatters the moment I remember the sound of my sister’s name being called. The moment my blood sealed a deal I didn’t fully understand.
My future is no longer my own.
By the time Marb rouses me, the sun is just beginning to kiss the horizon, painting the sky in a soft mosaic of purple and gold, stars slowly blinking into existence. When I was little, Father used to say they were tiny insects that got stuck in the black tar of the universe. My mother, on the other hand, believed each star was the soul of a departed loved one, shining down on the living to offer guidance and bring hope.
I bathe quickly. The water is cool and steeped with herbs that smell faintly of mint and crushed pine. When I step out, Marb is already waiting with my gown draped over her arms. She helps me dress in silence, her tiny hands surprisingly steady as she weaves my damp hair into a half-up braid, fastening it with a jeweled clip that glimmers across my brow like a crown, shimmering like starlight against the waves of red.
At midnight tonight, we Bloodmoon Brides are to be paraded before the mysterious king—unless the elusive harbinger of death decides to delay the ball once again. But with the banquet only hours away and the brides all bathed and preened, I’m certain that tonight is the night.
We’ve been promised a feast. But I have a sinking feeling the only thing that’ll be devoured tonight is us.
I sit beneath the willow tree on a low stone bench, my fingers curled against the edge as I tip my head back to stare at the sky. Shadows stretch, long and soft, across the garden, reaching for the stars. The scent of soil and roses wraps around me,intoxicatingly wild. For a moment, I pretend the palace isn’t behind me. I pretend tonight doesn’t exist, and I’m in a world far away.
I promised Marb I’ll return an hour before the ball, but I need this. One last breath of freedom. One last moment to myself before whatever fate unfolds tonight.
Rising slowly, I smooth my gown and step into the heart of the garden. The path is ringed with lilies and pale ivy, a circle of white petals beneath a canopy of stars.
I close my eyes and lift my arms.
Step. Turn. Stumble. I frown, trying to recall Marb’s instructions.
Again. Arms raised, I attempt the steps she so patiently tried to teach me—only to trip over my own feet and nearly lose my balance, letting out a curse.
“That’s a dangerous move,” a voice drawls behind me. “Careful, Fire. Try not to burn down my garden with your fury.”
My heart lurches. I whirl around, and there he is—leaning against the edge of the trellis, arms crossed, cloaked in silver light.
I scoff. “Yourgarden, huh? I thought you said it belongs to the king.”
He holds my gaze. “Everything in Noctryas belongs to the king.”
I freeze. Something in the way he says that unnerves me.
He pushes off the wall and strides toward me. The air shifts, warm despite the cool of the night. He stops in front of me, close. Closer than he should.
“We can’t let you go to the ball like this.” A ghost of a smile graces his lips. “May I?”
He bows elegantly and extends a hand, but I freeze.
“I may be a humble gardener,” he says, raising one brow, “but time is running out, and you clearly need the help.”
I sigh, then nod once, resolutely, and place my hand in his. He steps forward and gently guides my other hand to his shoulder, his own settling at my waist. The warmth of his touch hums through me as we begin to move.
I immediately step—well, more like stomp—on his toes.
“Oh!” I gasp. “I’m so sorry!”
