The morning after the masquerade, Floravere's royal gardens bloomed under a gentle breeze. Sunlight draped over arching trellises and warm stone paths, where cherry blossoms and pale wild roses painted the air with perfume. The hush of spring wrapped the grounds in serenity—yet for Elira, every corner held a memory.
She walked beside Jarell, fingers laced gently in his, as they strolled past lily ponds and marble benches. He said little—he rarely filled silence for the sake of it—but every now and then he glanced her way with quiet affection, like her presence alone was enough to steady him.
"It's beautiful here," Jarell murmured. "Almost sacred."
Elira smiled faintly. "It is. Though for me, it used to feel… smaller."
"Smaller?""I never realized how much of this place I only saw through someone else's eyes."
Jarell didn't press. He simply kept walking with her, present and open.
From the shaded veranda above the gardens, Prince Lucien watched them.
A slight breeze lifted the hem of his cloak, but he didn't move. Not even when Axellan appeared beside him, hands folded behind his back.
"You shouldn't be watching," Axellan said gently.
Lucien's voice was tight. "She used to bring me here."
His gaze drifted to the willow tree near the central fountain. A memory bloomed, unbidden:
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They sat beneath the willow, years ago. Elira had brought sweet tea in a silver flask and tried to teach him how to braid flower stems. He had laughed, at first. Said it was childish.
She had smiled anyway. "It's supposed to be light," she said. "Not everything has to mean something."
But when she stood to dance through the grass, humming to herself, Lucien had grabbed her wrist—firmly. Too firmly.
"Stay close to me," he had said."Why?" she asked, blinking."Because I don't like when you wander."
He had meant it as care. Then.Now, he wondered if it had always been fear.
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In the garden, Jarell stepped forward to brush a loose petal from Elira's hair. She turned toward him—gently, instinctively—and for a moment they simply looked at one another. Her eyes were calm. There was no trace of the girl who once flinched at raised voices.
She never looked at me like that, Lucien thought bitterly.Not without hesitation.
His throat tightened. Axellan glanced at him but said nothing.
Elira, meanwhile, paused at the willow.
"I sat here once," she said softly. "With someone else. I thought I was in love."
Jarell looked at her—open, patient. "Do you wish you were still?"
Elira turned to him fully, her voice a murmur carried by the wind.
"No. I just wish I'd left sooner."
Jarell reached for her hand again, and together they stepped into the soft light beyond the fountain.
Above, Lucien finally turned away.
But the echo of her voice—soft and resolute—lingered in his ears like a thread he could not untangle.