Before I could reply, Alaric stepped forward, sharp enough to break the moment. “Prince Alaric of Elyrien,” he said, his voice deliberately light but edged in steel. “The princess’s escort. And yours truly.”
Kaelen’s gaze slid to him, cool and amused. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
He released my hand. “Your rooms are ready. Rest. The welcoming banquet is tomorrow. And”—his smile curved in a way that made my skin prickle—“try to look presentable, won’t you.”
He turned, flicking two fingers to summon a servant. A man stepped forward immediately and bowed, gesturing for us to follow.
The halls were hushed as we walked, our footsteps echoing across pale tiles.
Jasira leaned toward me and whispered, “Feels like the walls are watching.”
I gave her a slight nod. The weight of the air pressed down like I’d stepped into a cage dressed in glass and marble.
My chamber was beautiful in a way that made my stomach twist—lilac-carved canopy bed with white lace curtains, a silver comb set beside a basin of rosewater so cold it misted in the air. The windows framed the sea, but the glass was too clean, as if it had never been touched.
It smelled faintly perfumed. Unfamiliar. The bed looked like it belonged to someone else entirely. Someone softer.
The servant bowed again before leaving us. The door shut, and Jasira and I stood in the thick, perfumed quiet he left behind.
…
Later, a knock at the door.
A servant stepped in, eyes downcast. In her gloved hands was a box of glass and silver. She placed it on the edge of the writing desk, bowed, and left without a word.
Jasira leaned forward to open it.
I peeked over at it.
Inside sat a single flower pressed in mid-bloom, its petals silver-white, ideally encased in crystal. A small parchment note lay folded beside it.
Jasira picked it up and read aloud.
“Beauty only lasts if it’s encased. Like peace.”
The flower looked real. Too real. Preserved at the edge of life, caught in an amber glass like something hunted and mounted.
A band of tension tightened around the neck, constricting my throat.
Jasira’s eyes narrowed.
I reached out and touched the crystal.
It was cold.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Not with the image of that glass flower burned behind my eyes. Not with the quiet weight of Caerthaine pressing in around us.
So, I lit a small candle, took my journal from beneath my cloak, and opened it with shaking fingers. Ink bled more than I meant it to, but I didn’t stop writing:
I keep thinking about the way the petals curled like it had been alive one breath ago. Like someone had stopped it.
I’ve seen pressed flowers. I’ve made them myself. But this was something else. This was invasive. A message or a warning. Or both.
It reminded me of that moment when someone brushes your hair back too gently, not out of love, but to see how it shines before they cut it.
I’m trying not to jump to fear. I’m trying to be rational. But something about this place is beautiful in all the wrong ways.
And I don’t think the flower was meant for anyone else.
