The moment the carriage disappeared through the palace gates, the faint smile slipped from Cessalie's face, replaced by the familiar hollowness that always followed good things.
She did not go back inside. Instead, she slipped through the side corridors of the palace quietly. By the time she reached the servants' wing, her shoes were in her hand, bare feet padding across the cold floor, past the crumbling walls, through the disused courtyard, and finally to the old iron gate that groaned with every movement.
Beyond the palace walls, it waited.
What used to be a garden.
A long time ago, it had belonged to her grandmother. They said the old woman had loved this place more than she ever loved her family. It showed. There had been lilies and silverleaf trees, vines of pale blue flowers curling around stone arches, and a small pond shaped like a crescent moon.
But after her grandmother died, after Cyrion stripped away every trace of softness from the palace, no one touched the garden again. The vines took over. The trees grew wild. The flowers tangled and strangled each other until only sharp leaves and stubborn roots remained. The crescent-shaped pond dried up.
The garden forgot it was ever a garden.
It became a forest.
The same forest where Cessalie had been thrown when she was twelve, barefoot and bleeding, for punishment for talking back to her father. She was left there all night to "learn her lesson."
But instead of fear, she found them.
The first to appear was Roxy. She was a feline creature with brilliant, glowing red eyes and large, upright, tufted ears. Dark tear marks traced beneath her eyes, and small spots dotted her brows and white muzzle. Thick, white-tipped fur framed her jawline, mane and underbelly, and her small dark nose twitched softly. Her warm tan coat was densely covered in small, dark spots that ran consistently across her entire body. She moved with quiet elegance, long neck, slender feline legs carrying her forward as her thick, plume-like tail lifted and swayed at the sight of Cessalie approaching.
Her tall ears rose so high that their tips nearly reached Cessalie's hips.
Cessalie dropped to her knees without hesitation, arms open. Roxy pressed into her, purring with a low, rough sound as her red eyes blinked up at her.
"Hey, little beast," Cessalie whispered, fingers curling through the soft fur.
A rustle followed. The grass shifted. The ground almost seemed to hum under the weight of something approaching.
Dravonyr emerged from the trees. He was massive, standing well over six feet tall at the shoulder. His body carried the strong frame of a horse, broad, yet heavily muscled. Thick bundles of muscle rolled beneath his coat like braided cords with every step.
His fur was a blend of charcoal gray, ochre tan, and cream white. A dense black mane began at his forehead and ran down the length of his neck. His chest and shoulders were wide, leading into sturdy legs built for strength rather than speed. His paws were oversized, tipped with thick black claws. Cream-colored fur grew in long tufts behind his elbows and hocks, and a long tail followed his movements.
His head, however, was unmistakably canine. A long lupine snout ended in a black nose, with small pointed ears set high above sharp amber eyes. He moved like a sacred beast shaped by the hand of a god.
He stepped closer, the faintest sound of his snort brushing the air between them. His massive head lowered until it hovered just above hers.
Cessalie leaned in without fear, resting her forehead against his.
"I missed you too," she whispered, her voice low and quiet as the wind brushed through the overgrown grass.
Here, no one whispered her father's name. No one watched her and expected unrealistic things from her.
Here, she was not Cessalie Draevin.
She was just herself.
And then came another beast—Zevrathen.
His build was nothing like the others. He was tall but unnervingly lean, his body long and narrow, built for speed rather than brute strength. His walk was like stalking.
His head was sharp and angular, with a narrow, pointed snout and long upright ears tapering into fine tips. Vibrant cyan eyes glowed against a face covered in small brown scales. Behind his ears, a ruff of white and pale gray fur flowed down into a thin mane along his neck.
Unlike Dravonyr's thick fur, Zevrathen's torso and limbs were armored in large overlapping scales that resembled metallic plates. The color shifted from bright turquoise at his shoulders to deep bronze and copper along his back and flanks. The scales on his lower forelimbs darkened into rich purple and indigo.
His legs were long and thin, ending in dark paws tipped with curved black talons. His hind legs were slightly thicker.
His tail was long and heavy, plated in bronze and copper scales, tapering into dark blade-like ridges that curved upward at the tip.
When he reached Cessalie, reaching her shoulders, lowered his head, like a child greeting his mother.
Cessalie stayed still for a second, breathing slow, swallowing back the lump that formed in her throat. This place, these creatures... they were hers. The only thing in her life that ever truly felt like it belonged to her.
This was her strange, quiet corner of the world and her odd, dangerous family.
Roxy curled beside her the moment she sat in the patch of moss, resting her head on Cessalie's thigh, ears twitching at every distant sound. Dravonyr settled behind her like a wall of muscle and fur. Zevrathen coiled part of his long body along the clearing's edge, his tail flicking once as he rested his chin near her knee.
Cessalie plucked a small, stubborn flower growing between the roots of a nearby tree. She rolled it between her fingers, eyes following the petals rather than meeting the expectant gazes around her.
"So…" she started quietly, almost like testing the words, "there's this man."
Roxy let out a short huff, unimpressed.
"He's not that awful," Cessalie added, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "It's… Davian. The marriage thing I never asked for. You remember?"
Zevrathen's tail thumped once against the ground, expressing his displeasure about it.
"I know," she murmured. "I hated it too. Still do, sometimes. But…"
Her fingers tightened slightly on the stem.
"He's not what I thought he'd be. He listens...actually listens." She paused, watching the flower tilt in the breeze. "He took me to the sanctuary, ten the market, bought me a lot of things..." she picked up the glass toy in her palms, "even this little glass object I liked. I didn't even ask. He just… noticed."
Cessalie shook her head lightly, more to herself than them, keeping the glass piece aside.
"Who does that?"
"And when I talk, he doesn't interrupt or mock me. He looks at me like I'm something real, not a daughter of Cyrion."
Roxy nuzzled her snout in her lap. This was their way ot communication, of showing their displeasure to her.
"I don't trust it yet," she smiled, caressing roxy's head, voice lower now. "I don't trust him yet. But… I think I'm starting to like him."
Zevrathen picked up his head like she said she wanted to give birth to his twelve children, small cyan eyes widening.
"I know I shouldn't," she added immediately , fingers toying with the small flower still in her hand. "But sometimes… when he smiles at me, or tucks my hair back, or—" She stopped, heat creeping onto her cheeks, "—when he looks at me like I matter… I forget I'm supposed to hate this."
The clearing stayed quiet after that.
Roxy let out a low, approving sound from her Cessalie's lap, nuzzling more into the fold of her lap.
Zevrathen shifted his body with ease, coiling beside Cessalie. The cool press of his scaled neck settled against her ankle, grounding her more than words ever could.
Cessalie stayed longer than she intended to.
The sun had dipped behind the tangled treetops, leaving the overgrown garden steeped in deepening blue and fading gold. The last traces of light clung weakly to the leaves before surrendering to the darkening sky. The breeze softened, carrying the cool hush of approaching night.
"I'll come back soon," she promised them, though she wasn't sure when she'd actually be able to soon. "Don't eat anything poisonous, alright?"
Roxy gave a faint snort in reply. Cyrion had tried to kill them many times with poison in meat but these beasts were immune to poison. Still it made cessalie worry.
By the time she slipped back through the rusted gate and into the palace, her dress was speckled with grass and dirt. Her hair was tangled. The scent of leaves and fur clung to her skin. But for the first time in a while, she didn't care.
It was the best she'd felt in days.
A maid spotted her and blinked like seeing her outside was some rare event. Cessalie ignored it.
As she walked inside, that dull ache crept into her chest again She starter missing them already. She hated how soft she was towards them.
.
.
.
.
It was late afternoon when Davian came.
She was curled up in bed, rereading the same old book for the hundredth time, when a knock came.
"Come in," she called, already sitting up straighter.
Davian walked in, looking casual like always. His coat was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and in his arms were books.
She tilted her head, folding her legs. "You're trying to turn me into your scholar bride, aren't you?"
He smirked. "If the title fits."
He placed the books beside her carefully. Cessalie glanced at the covers.
Chronicles of Elara'thia.
The Eight Witches.
Forbidden Sigils and Rituals.
All about witches.
Her fingers brushed the covers. "These are… for me?"
"You said you didn't know much about them. Thought you might want to."
Cessalie blinked, a little thrown. No one ever followed up on things she said, let alone remembered them.
"These are not even from the Royal Library," she murmured, turning the book over in her hands as she searched for a royal seal or any regional stamp, since most libraries marked their collections. She looked up at him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Where did you get them?"
"I asked around."
She scoffed, of course he did.
"You didn't have to," she whispered, unsure what to do with the warmth creeping into her chest.
"I wanted to."
He sat at the edge of the bed, not too close, just near enough. Cessalie pulled one of the books into her lap, flipping through the old pages. The worn paper smelled like ink and dust.
"You're not afraid to talk about them?" she asked, watching him. "Most people still act like witches are cursed."
"I don't think they're cursed," Davian said. "They're powerful and complicated but important."
And dangerous, she thought. But didn't say it.
She studied him for a second longer, waiting for the catch. There wasn't one.
The ache in her chest flared again.
She lowered her gaze to the pages, studying the diagrams, the traced bloodlines, and the fragments of old spells. It felt like an entirely different world had been captured and preserved within the ink.
Davian leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, eyes drifting to the sunlight pooling through the window.
"You know," he said quietly, "I saw you once before. all this."
Cessalie nodded, looking up sideways, pretending to think. "Yes, you told me. On my debut? "
He didn't say anything. Her eyes fell on him, head tilting curiously. Then he nodded, "Yes, your eighteenth debut. You wore that coral gown with the pearls on the sleeves."
"That was almost two years ago." She scoffed, tracing lines on book again.
Davian smiled, faint but real. "You looked bored out of your mind."
She laughed. "I was. They made me talk to four different suitors. One kept guessing my favorite flower."
"Did he get it right?"
"I told him it was nightshade so he'd leave."
Davian laughed, low and honest. "Of course you did."
A beat passed. His voice softened.
"I watched you dance with that Lord from Velmond. Everyone said he was the most eligible heir that year. But all I could think was how unfair it was… that someone like you had to smile at men like him."
Cessalie's chest tightened, the words sinking in deeper than she expected.
"I remember that moment," Davian said, turning his face to her, whose gaze was lost in the book. "You turned for a second… looked toward the edge of the ballroom. Right where I was standing."
Her eyes met his now. "I didn't even know you were there."
"You didn't have to," he replied. "I saw enough for both of us."
A strange tightness coiled in her throat. Why was he saying this now? Why bring that memory back, dress it up in meaning it never had?
"I was still married then," he added. "But Dahlia was considering a divorce with me. But I refused because then she would have to live in shame... As you know..." He clasped his hands together."
"Because women are then not acceped by anyone?" she said in a casual tone but it pricked her. Only If women were not defamed and were left able to live in society after divorce, then many of them would not have to suffer abuse from their husbands.
Davian nodded his head lightly. "Yes."
Cessalie stayed quiet, words hovering on her tongue but never leaving. There wasn't much to say to that. But she wanted to ask why Duchess and him were going to divorce but she bit her tongue.