It was massive, imposing, its towers creeping toward the sky. The stone was charcoal gray, stained with age and moss, and the walls were thick with ivy.
The garden caught my eye.
It spilled along the grounds in wild abundance—roses climbing the outer walls in cascades of deep purple and crimson, their blooms heavy and full. Herb beds lined the paths leading to the entrance; some overgrown and in need of tending, but the plants themselves were lush, thriving. Feverfew tangled with lavender, chamomile spread in thick mats, and yarrow reached toward the sun with healthy green stalks.
What I would have killed for back home.
While our village gardens struggled to survive, here plants flourished with an abundance that seemed almost defiant. The beds might need weeding, the paths might be overgrown, but the life force in these plants was undeniable.
I moved closer, drawn despite the formidable structure looming above. My fingers itched to touch the leaves, to test the soil, to understand how anything could grow so well in a place that felt so abandoned.
But the statues stopped me.
Gargoyles carved from dark stone, scattered throughout the grounds like chess pieces abandoned mid-game. One stood near the castle wall, his hand outstretched as if reaching for something just beyond his grasp. Another was frozen mid-run, one foot lifted, his face twisted in agony. A third kneeled with his hands raised defensively, mouth open in a silent scream.
They looked too real. Too detailed. And the anguish etched into their faces…
My skin prickled. These weren’t decorative statues meant to beautify a garden. They were monuments to something terrible.
But then, up ahead near the door was our cart, the one Mom had taken with Henri yesterday. My heart lit with hope. They were here!
When I glanced around this unsettling garden of gargoyles, trepidation crept in.
The sensation of being observed crawled across the back of my neck like a crawling insect, and I rubbed it. I glanced around but saw nothing. No movement. No signs of life except for the thorny rose bushes growing wild and the ivy climbing the walls.
I crossed the grounds slowly, my footsteps loud in the silence. The weeds brushed against my boots, like whispering in warning. The statues watched with their frozen eyes.
My heart thumped. I had to step forward. Had to find them and make sure they were okay.
Nudging my chin up, I forced myself to take decisive steps forward. I lifted my hand and hesitated, my thoughts conjuring all sorts of monsters behind the door.
Do it.
I knocked, softly, and waited.
No answer.
I tried again, using more force this time. With still no response, I pushed the door open and stepped into a vast entryway with a vaulted ceiling. Lamplight mixed with sunlight streaming through high windows, illuminating stone walls lined with faded tapestries. Paintings hung between them—portraits of stern-faced men in military dress, landscapes of forests I didn’t recognize, a massive battle scene that covered most of one wall. The colors had dulled with age, but I could still make out the details: soldiers with wings spread wide, gargoyle warriors locked in combat against an enemy I couldn’t identify.
The floor was polished stone, though dust had settled in the corners. A grand staircase curved upward to a second level, its banister carved with intricate designs—more gargoyles, their stone faces frozen in expressions of vigilance.
But it was what lay beyond the hall that stopped me entirely.
An open door at the far end led into a courtyard. I crossed the hall quickly, my footsteps echoing on the stone, and stepped out. The courtyard was open to the sky, enclosed by walls on all four sides. And it was magnificent.
Lush plants thrived despite being surrounded by stone. Roses climbed the walls in deep purples and blood reds. Ferns unfurled in the corners, their fronds thick and green. Moss covered the ground in thick carpets, soft as velvet. A rising, circular stone bed overflowed with herbs. I clasped my hands together in glee.
In the center, a tree I’d never seen before rose toward the sky. Its trunk was pale and smooth, almost white, and its leaves shimmered with silver iridescence in the midday sun, catching the light and scattering it in soft patterns across the courtyard walls.
It was the most beautiful tree I’d ever seen.
“Lilia?”
I turned toward the sound of my mother’s voice and ran over, throwing my arms around her. “Oh my god, Mom, you’re here. You’re okay.”
She held me tightly. “What are you doing here?” She pulled back and glanced into my face with concern. “I told you not to follow?—”
“But you didn’t come back.” My ribs tightened before I asked what pressed on my mind. “Henri?” I could only get out the one word.
