(Celeste)
Jubal had led her into the courtyard, and Celeste had marveled despite herself. The open sky stretched above, framed by high arches of stone, and in the center rose the most magnificent fountain she had ever seen. Blue water spilled down a carved figure, sparkling like liquid glass.
But it was the garden that called her.
She drifted toward it, leaving Jubal to his duties without a word. To be outside again—free air filling her lungs, no watchful sneers from the concubines—it was the first taste of freedom she'd had in days.
The sadness of missing home stirred, but she shoved it down. There was no home worth missing. Her relatives had been parasites, draining her work until there was nothing left but betrayal. They had sold her to strangers for coin. That wasn't family—that was rot.
And rot was everywhere here too. The Emperor's garden was overrun with weeds. Exotic plants withered in neglect, vines coiling like greedy fingers around their roots. Celeste pitied them instantly. Kneeling without thought, she dug her hands into the soil, tugging weeds free.
Work—real work—steadied her heart.
But irritation came quickly. An emperor with a palace of gold couldn't hire a gardener? Shrubs browned at the edges. Blossoms drooped. All this beauty left to choke and die. She yanked a vine free with unnecessary force, picturing the Emperor's smug face. Damn him. Damn them all.
She was not theirs.
She was Celeste Morgan, and no amount of silk or paint or branded ink could strip that away. These palace walls were nothing more than another cage, and she refused to call herself a slave. This was temporary. She would survive. She would escape.
Lost in the rhythm of tearing weeds from the dirt, she didn't hear the footsteps until a shadow fell across her.
"Hello, little firefly," came the rumble behind her.
Celeste rolled her eyes skyward before glancing back at him. Of course. "Why do you insist on calling me that?" she snapped.
His lips curved into an infuriating smile. "Because when I first saw you, you reminded me of one. Fireflies shine from within. Did you know they use their light to attract a mate… or prey?" His eyes glinted under the sun.
"Prey sounds about right," she muttered, hunching her shoulders. "While you're here, I have a bone to pick with you."
To her shock, the Emperor knelt beside her in the dirt, far too close for comfort. "Already?" Amusement laced his tone.
"Don't get cute," she warned, shooting him a side glance. She waved at the tangled bed. "See these weeds? They're choking your flowers. Stealing their life. Why hasn't anyone cared for them properly?"
Thane studied the bed, brows drawing low. "I've not held the throne long. Hiring a gardener has not… reached the top of my list of priorities."
Her anger faltered. His father. Of course. She winced, shame prickling her chest. "I'm sorry. For your loss." She looked down at her soil-stained hands, words tumbling before she could stop them. "I know how it feels, to lose parents. It doesn't stop hurting, but… it gets easier."
Unwanted tears burned her eyes. She bit her lip hard. The last thing she needed was pity.
A rough, warm hand tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were steady, his voice soft. "Thank you."
She swallowed, caught by the sincerity in his tone. He wasn't just thanking her for sympathy—he was grateful for the glimpse into her past.
"You're welcome, Your Highness," she murmured.
Birds chirped overhead, the fountain's song filling the silence. For one breath, it was almost peaceful.
"Call me Thane," he said, rising to his feet. Before she could argue, he added, "Would you have dinner with me tonight?"
Celeste blinked up at him, startled. "Is that a question, or one of those commands disguised as a choice?"
His laugh rolled across the courtyard. "A question. You can refuse, if you truly wish."
She chewed the inside of her cheek, then nodded once. "Alright."
"Good. I'll send for you at six." He turned, then paused, glancing back. "And I'll have someone bring you gloves. Tell them whatever else you need. The garden is yours now—tend it as you see fit."
And then he was gone.
Celeste sat frozen, heart tripping in her chest. Yours.
No one had ever given her anything before. Not really. She'd been used, dismissed, discarded—but never trusted with something that could be called her own.
She looked at the tangled beds again, weeds still strangling the life from delicate blossoms. Her mind began to buzz with possibilities—what she could save, what she could grow, what she could make flourish.
For the first time since stepping foot in Vlallas, hope stirred.