The Walled Garden of Iva lay nestled between the Princess's Wing and the Prince's Wing, binding the two private quarters of the palace with a sweep of rare flowers and botanical marvels gathered from every corner of the kingdom. Though divided into sections—orchards, glasshouses, shaded groves—all paths wound inevitably to the heart of it: a great wrought-iron cage of a structure, its ribs and arches draped with morning glories in every vibrant shade, their blooms clinging and tumbling in cascades of color.
It was there that King Onin found his daughter waiting for him late that afternoon, seated at the long table beneath the intricate cage of vines. The table was already set: a spread of exotic sweets and delicate pastries, and the fragrant steam of jasmine tea curling from a pot. Yet his eye was not caught first by the tea or the treats. It was the two wooden boxes resting side by side on the table, carved in the same patterns, stained in the same deep hue. A faint knowing smile tugged at his mouth.
Rosina rose when she saw him. The elegant silk of her light blue gown pooled around her as she dipped into a graceful curtsy, a move that carried all the poise of her tutors' instructions. She was fifteen then, already unfolding into her beauty, and to Onin it seemed each passing day made her more and more a reflection of her mother.
Where his son Roen mirrored him—golden hair, sharp jaw, broad frame, ice-blue gaze—Rosina was a tempered mixture. She bore the same light-blue eyes, but the pale gleam of her hair was her mother's alone: platinum, rare as starlight, flowing like liquid silver under the sun. But if Arlena's beauty was serene and cold, Rosina's held something else beneath its surface, something smoldering, a faint burn that Onin thought only he could glimpse.
He lifted her from her curtsy with both hands, guided her back to her seat, and then took his own place opposite. Today he wore his favorite tail coat, a dark crimson that matched Nivara's banner, over a simple white linen shirt. At his gesture, the servants filled their cups and withdrew. No ears but theirs were meant for what he had come to say.
"How is your studying, Rosina?" he asked, sliding a plate of her favored sweets closer.
"My studying is going well as usual, Father." Her tone was soft, measured, her gaze lowered with the elegance of a practiced lesson. "The tutors are attentive. Mother has been supporting me with all her grace and wisdom."
Onin chuckled under his breath, tasting the edge of politeness in her reply. He had been King too long to be fooled by words so neat. "I've heard you've been visiting the Archives Wing quite often."
The fork in her hand stilled for just a breath before she recovered, moving as if nothing had shifted. "Yes, Father," she admitted carefully. "I find books on matters of statecraft and politics rather... entertaining in my idle hours."
His brilliant eyes lingered on her, weighing her words against what he knew. She was his daughter—she did not haunt the archives for idle amusement. Still, he only smiled faintly. "My daughter is not only graceful but also bright."
The King let silence fall after that, letting his daughter taste her sweets while he took his own. At last, when he had set down his fork and dabbed at his lips with a napkin, his gaze steadied on her again. The time for prelude had passed. Now came the true matter of this visit.
"So, you've come to your final decision?" he asked, studying her with care.
Rosina smiled and dipped her head in a small nod. "Yes, Father. I apologize for making you wait so long."
"Don't be. I value how carefully you've weighed it." The King shrugged lightly, as if it were a small matter. "So then, tell me—who is the fortunate young man?"
Rosina had been waiting for that question since the moment she entered the garden. Instead of answering outright, she slid the box on her right side forward across the table, her smile carrying just the faintest glimmer of mischief.
The King's eyes dropped to the box, then lifted again to his daughter's face, his own mouth curving as he matched her smile. Slowly, he opened it. Inside lay a neat stack of letters, each one already unsealed, the remnants of violet wax still clinging to the flaps.
"The violet seals were intriguing, Father," Rosina said, her tone light, almost teasing, "and the proposal they carried was generous enough. But I must decline. I've decided I'd rather see what the winters of Loraque are like."
Onin closed the box carefully, though the smile remained upon his face. Still, his next words probed, testing the firmness of her resolve. "Why the freezing north, my dear? Why not the windswept plains of the east, the steppes and grasslands? Their climate is closer to ours—you might find it easier to adapt."
Rosina understood at once that her father was weighing her reasoning, so she chose her reply with care. She lifted her teacup, took a graceful sip, then set it down. "Forgive my bluntness, Father, but I have no wish to marry into a kingdom known for nothing more than agriculture and cavalry."
The King's smile deepened, though a spark of challenge glimmered in his eyes. "You're confident we can do well enough without them?"
There was no more reason to veil her thinking. Rosina leaned forward slightly, her words quickening. "Yes, Father. We do not lack what they offer. But Loraque—Loraque has silver and gemstones, lead and quartz, wool and lumber, and more besides. All things our Viremont can hardly provide. Their value far outweighs that of the east." She stopped herself, lips pressing faintly. "Please don't make me go on listing them."
Onin nodded slowly, pleased though he gave no praise. He pressed instead, his voice measured. "But that cannot be the only reason, can it?"
Rosina wavered for a moment, gauging whether she ought to speak freely. At last she did. Folding her arms, her tone cooled. "Of course it is not the only reason. How could I possibly choose a mere fourth prince over a Crown Prince?" A flicker of disdain crossed her face. "What was his name again?"
"Novalis Vessar, dear," her father supplied, amusement tugging faintly at his voice.
"Yes, Novalis." She rolled the name with indifference. "He has too many brothers ahead of him in the line of succession. The difference was plain to me."
Rosina had heard enough tales of King Salen of Vessaint to know he was a man of many mistresses. No one could say how many sons he had beyond those formally acknowledged. Novalis, by rumor, was among the more promising—so much so that Salen had put him forward for her, claiming in his letters that the boy was an excellent match. If Novalis secured a marriage with her, it would raise his standing in the Vessaint court and might even place him in contention for the crown. But Salen's abundance of sons made the prospect risky, and Rosina was not inclined toward uncertainty.
Onin, by then, was openly pleased. When the proposals had first arrived months before, he had summoned his daughter. He had laid before her all the correspondence exchanged with the two kings, along with their sons' personal letters, and invited her to judge for herself. He had no desire to force her hand in so weighty a decision. Still, had the choice fallen to him, he would not have hesitated to select Loraque, for every reason Rosina herself had named. That she came to the conclusion on her own was a relief.
At last, he lifted his teacup, savoring a slow sip before speaking. "You've done a great deal of hard thinking these past three months, my dear."
"I could not take such a matter lightly, Father." Rosina inclined her head with measured grace. "This marriage binds itself to an exclusive trade of Ignium. I had to weigh every aspect with care."
"I confess, I was relieved when you favored Loraque over Vessaint," the King admitted, his grin bright. "Had you chosen Vessaint, hauling the Ignium wagons across Viremont's harsh terrain to the east would have been a nightmare."
Rosina only reached for another sweet, her voice calm, as though her duty were already fulfilled. "I considered that as well. The mine lies close to Loraque. It saves both cost and men."
Onin leaned back, folding his arms as he regarded her fully. "I can only imagine—if you were born a prince—I'd have a hard time choosing between you and Roen."
Rosina looked up at him sharply, her tone cool with reproach. "You mustn't doubt Roen, Father. My brother is more excellent than I could ever be."
Her father laughed warmly at her fierce defense, but his voice lowered as he slid another treat onto her plate. "He is excellent. Yet I cannot deny it saddens me deeply to see you go."
Rosina lowered her gaze to the plate, her tone softening. "I will be sad as well, Father. But my role is to bind, and this is how I serve Nivara—you cannot deny me that. This marriage will strengthen Roen's reign when his time comes. That alone pleases me."
Pride lit his eyes, glinting as he finished the last of his tea. For a time, they shared the table in companionable quiet, Rosina savoring the sweets while he watched her with quiet contentment. Then he rose, lifting the box of violet-sealed letters she had set aside earlier.
"I'll write to old King Landon, send my refusal to King Salen, and discard these letters," he said. His hand gestured toward the other box, still resting beside Rosina. "Shall I take these with me, or would you prefer to keep them?"
Rosina rose as well, her hands resting lightly on the box. "If I may, Father, I'd like to keep Loraque's letters."
Onin nodded with ease. "Of course, my dear. They were meant for you, after all."
"Thank you, Father." She inclined her head, her voice softened with gratitude. "And thank you for coming all the way to see me."
Her father left her with a final smile, his stride long and assured, every step carrying the quiet triumph of a man satisfied with the day's work.
Rosina lingered where she was until his figure vanished from sight. Only then did she gather the box of Loraque's letters into her arms and make her way back, moving quietly through the corridors until she reached the solitude of her bedchamber.
Once inside, she shed the day like a burden. Her heels were kicked off, the wooden box tossed onto her bed. A light dress replaced the heavy gown that had been strangling her waist all afternoon, and at last she collapsed beside the box with a long, weary sigh, her eyes tracing the high ceiling above. The decision had been spoken. There was no going back now.
Only after a while did her gaze turn to the box resting within reach.
How sweet, how futile, these letters.
She pulled the box closer, lifted the lid, and drew out the top letter, a silver seal glinting on its flap.
All splendid poetry, all faithful vows.
She unfolded the letter, her eyes skimming over words she had read a hundred times across three long months.
As though we even know what each other looks like.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, the letter slipping from her hand as she drew in a deep breath.
"Alright, Kalevi Lukkari," she whispered into the quiet. "Let's hope I won't regret choosing you."