"Y-you mean… this… this is our child's grave?"
Her hand flew to her mouth to muffle the sobs that broke from her, raw and uncontrollable. She had never possessed the courage to stand here before, never dared to face the soil that covered what once had been her world. She had not even come to his burial—cowardice, she had told herself, though the guilt had burned her all these time. And now, without meaning to, her steps had led her straight to him.
Her knees buckled, her body collapsing to the ground. She pressed herself to the small mound of earth, her fingers clawing at the flowers as though to embrace what lay beneath.
"I am so sorry, my little one," she choked, her voice breaking. "Forgive me… oh God, forgive me. I am a terrible mother… I wasn't there, I didn't say goodbye. Please—please forgive me."
Her sobs tore through the silence, ragged, unrestrained, the sound of a soul unraveling. She wept until her chest ached, until her voice was little more than a gasp.
Matthias stood behind her, his own tears streaming, his face pale with a grief compounded—first his mother, now the sight of his wife crying before the grave of their lost child. For a long time, he could not move. At last, he stepped forward and knelt beside her. He gathered her trembling body into his arms, holding her as though to shield her from a cruelty he could not undo. He pressed her to his chest, his hand stroking her back in a futile attempt to quiet her cries.
But her wails grew louder, broken, echoing into the dawn. And so the mourners turned their heads. One by one, they watched the scene unfold—Kael, Lyla, Emilia, all of them witnessing what had once been a private wound laid bare before their eyes. They saw Olivia not as the poised Duchess who held her head high before court, but as a grieving mother shattered beyond dignity, her strength crumbled at the foot of a child's grave.
The Queen herself trembled. Her hand lifted, then faltered mid-air. She could not bear to watch and turned her face away, her composure cracking under the weight of the moment.
At last, Isabella, her voice soft yet piercing, spoke to the gathering, her eyes glistening as she tightened her grip on Leon's hand.
"It seems," she said, her words laced with sorrow, "that today we have buried not one soul, but two."
Her meaning rippled through the mourners. No one dared to speak further. Silence fell—solemn, reverent—out of respect not only for the dead but for the living whose hearts had been broken alongside them.
At last, after all the weeping, all the breaking of voices and hearts, Olivia surrendered to exhaustion. Curled in Matthias's arms, her sobs ebbed into silence, her breathing shallow as sleep finally claimed her. He gathered her with a tenderness that felt almost fragile, as though she might shatter further if held too tightly.
Yet even in sleep, her hands refused to let go of the flowers that had covered Elias's grave. A few delicate blue blossoms clung to her fingers, pressed there as though her grief had claimed them. Matthias did not disturb her. Around them, silence grew heavy. The mourners bowed their heads—not to the coffin, not to the stone, but to the broken pair huddled at its foot. Then, one by one, they drifted away, their footsteps fading into the dawn until the graveyard was left empty.
When Olivia woke again, it was not to the earth and sky, but to the confines of her chamber. She lay on her bed, still in the same garments that had carried her to the funeral. Her gown was streaked with soil, her hair undone, and her reflection in the mirror beside her startled her: eyes swollen and red from tears, lips pale, her very skin a portrait of ruin.
Her gaze dropped to her hands. Dust and soil stained her palms, but among the dirt were the faint petals of the flowers she had clutched in her grief. Blue flowers. Elias's flowers. Her throat tightened, fresh tears threatening, but before they could fall another memory surged—sharp, cutting like a blade.
"Shall I adorn her with blue flowers? They suit her well."
Elvira's words. Spoken once with cruel softness about Isabella. At the time, Olivia had heard them as little more than a veiled threat. But now… the very same flowers lay scattered across her son's grave.
Her breath caught; her body trembled. The connection struck her like a storm. She swallowed hard, her chest constricting, and pushed herself up from the bed. Her legs were weak, the room spinning around her. She nearly collapsed before the door opened.
Isabella entered unannounced, her expression weary, only to see Olivia swaying on her feet, pale as a ghost. She rushed forward at once, slipping an arm around her.
"Olivia!" she exclaimed, steadying her carefully. "What are you trying to do, rising so suddenly, after collapsing like that at the cemetery?"
Olivia's lips parted, her voice faint, a whisper torn between disbelief and dread.
"Isabella… you're here."
Her weight sagged into Isabella's arms, her body still trembling, but her eyes—though glassy with exhaustion—were alive now, burning with a new and terrible suspicion.
Isabella offered her a glass of water, steadying it in Olivia's trembling hands. For a moment, Olivia drank in silence, until Isabella's eyes fell upon the small cluster of flowers still clenched stubbornly in her palm.
She reached forward to take them, but Olivia jerked her hand away.
"Olivia," Isabella said softly, though there was a sharpness beneath her tone, "you must learn to accept reality. Why cling even to the flowers from Elias's grave? Have you lost your senses?"
Olivia's breath quickened, anger rising like a flame she struggled to contain. "Do not vex me, Isabella. These flowers are not about that."
Isabella's brow furrowed, her frustration breaking through.
"Not about that? You keep his toys, his little bed, things you no longer need—and now even the flowers from his grave. Do you think me blind? Even his room you forbid the maids to clean!"
Olivia's hand lifted in fury, a sudden impulse to strike, but her strength betrayed her. Isabella caught her wrist before it could fall, holding it firmly. She did not retaliate. Instead, her expression softened into something worse than reprimand: pity. Lowering herself to Olivia's level, she pressed both of Olivia's fragile hands into her own.
"Olivia," she whispered, her voice trembling with compassion, "I know today's funeral has torn open an old wound. But you must let it heal. You cannot bleed forever."
Olivia's chest heaved as though every breath were laden with stones. At last, she exhaled, a long sigh that seemed to drain what little strength remained in her. She looked at Isabella with weary eyes and motioned weakly for her to sit beside her.
"It isn't only grief, Isabella," she said at last, her voice hushed, secretive. "It's… suspicion. There is something about these flowers. I need to know what they are—and why they were there. Do you understand?"
Isabella blinked, uncertain, disbelief flickering across her features. "Flowers? That is what troubles you? Very well then. Give them to me—I will find answers if you wish."
Olivia hesitated, her fingers closing tighter around the delicate stems. For a moment she looked as though she might never release them. Then, with a trembling hand, she finally let them fall into Isabella's waiting palm.
Wordlessly, she reached for parchment and pen. Her hand shook as she scrawled an address, sliding the paper across the table.
"Take them to this man. He will know. Ask him what these flowers mean."
Isabella glanced at the note, then back at Olivia, her expression unreadable. "As you wish," she said quietly. "But now—you must rest."
Olivia leaned back against the pillows, her body sinking under the weight of exhaustion. Yet her eyes did not close. They stared at the ceiling, haunted, restless. The blue blossoms were gone from her hand, but their image lingered behind her eyes.
And as she drifted once more toward uneasy sleep, she could not shake the dreadful thought that those flowers carried with them a secret—a secret she had only begun to uncover.