We stroll past flowerbeds and fountains, over moss-covered stone and under arched wisteria. The king treads the ground beside me, silent but solid, like a second heartbeat.
“Your gardens make it easy to forget this place is cursed,” I say sharply, meaning it like the jab it is.
“Then they’re doing their job,” he answers quietly.
“Keeping everyone distracted?” I retort.
“Keeping them alive.” His tone is mild, but the edge beneath it cuts, nonetheless.
For now, I think, but even I don’t dare to voicethatthought.
Then he asks about home, and my heart throbs with longing.
“I don’t miss the city,” I say flatly, betraying nothing.
“Then what do you miss?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The truth would sound too small, too human. So instead, I keep walking, pretending to study the hedgerows while my pulse thrums in my throat.
He says nothing more, and for a while, only the hush of wind and water fills the space between us.
Suddenly, he stops, and I follow his gaze to a marble gazebo with a hollow in the roof. In the center, a massive planter holds a flower I haven’t seen since I was a child. Not just any flower.
A moonbeam.
“This is the crown jewel of my garden,” the king says. “They only bloom beneath the moonlight. This one hasn’t opened yet… but I think it will tonight.” Then, after a beat, “I thought we might watch it open together.”
The petals are pale and curled tight, almost translucent at the edges. As I step closer, I can see the faint shimmer of silver threaded through each vein, like stars stitched into lace. It doesn’t quite look real. Rather, it looks like a piece of night sky plucked from the heavens and folded into a flower.
I stare at it, my throat tightening as I remember how I used to gather them once a year with my mother, before she died. “These only grow amid the southern cliffs of Solmere.” My fingers hover over the unopened petals. “How did you…?”
A faint smile curves his mouth. “I have my ways.”
“My mother loved moonbeams,” I whisper.
The king’s head drops slightly, eyes softening as he studies me for a moment. “I’m sorry about your mother and your brother.” He says it so simply, so unexpectedly, that it takes me a moment to believe he means it.
Who is this man? I glance down at the moonbeam again, its petals still closed, waiting for the perfect moment to bloom.
“I thought they were extinct,” I say, returning my attention to the flower. “I ventured to the cliffs to pick some to leave at her grave the year after she passed, but it was as if they’d all disappeared.” My gaze lifts to meet his. “Thank you, Your Highness. For showing me this.”
“Keiren,” he says softly.
“What?”
“Please…Call me Keiren.”
The air shifts between us—quieter now, more fragile.
After a moment, he gestures to a wrought iron table tucked beneath the trees. Steam is curling from a pot of tea delicately laid out between two teacups. He pulls out a chair for me, andI take a sip of my tea—jasmine and chamomile—while he stirs honey into his own.
“I made this blend from the flowers of this very garden,” he says proudly.
“It’s better than the ones I used to make from my mother’s garden,” I murmur, taking another sip. He doesn’t interrupt, so I continue, “After she died, I couldn’t keep a single thing alive. I tried everything. New seeds. Imported soil. Even gardeners from abroad.” A quiet breath escapes me. “For five years, I tried.”
He studies me as if listening to what I don’t say.
Then he rises and steps toward the garden’s edge. For a moment, I think he’s leaving.
