I walk through the seemingly endless corridor of my estate, my steps measured, echoing faintly against the polished marble floor. The air is cool, tinged with the faint scent of candle wax and aged wood. After taking two right turns and descending the grand staircase, I arrive at the rose garden.
"Father does not wish for me to meet anyone. Then let it be as our benevolent patriarch desires," I murmur with dry amusement, the rich leather of my shoes brushing against the turquoise-hued grass. The fragrance of a thousand blooms—flowers that exist nowhere but within the confines of our estate—fills my senses, a symphony of delicate scents woven into the gentle breeze. Towering trees cast cooling shadows, offering respite from the relentless sun. Outside, the world is perpetually dull, overcast with an air of somber stillness. But here… here, it is vibrant. Almost surreal.
The climate of the rose garden defies nature itself. Cool in summer, yet warm in winter, sustained by the rare herbs cultivated within the soil, each one imbuing the land with an unseen vitality. I stroll through this sanctuary, my posture relaxed, almost languid, as if still within the comfort of my chambers.
Only the gardeners ever set foot here, and even they come but rarely. Most of the flora tend to themselves, as though the garden is a living entity, thriving without the touch of mortal hands. Crimson roses bloom beside ice-blue blossoms, their velvety petals reminiscent of lion's mane. The deep auburn bark of ancient trees is entwined with violet vines, curling around the sacred fruits of the Earthly Tree. Woolflies—creatures both delicate and ethereal—hover over the blossoms, scattering their magical blue dust, coaxing the petals into their full splendor.
A faint smile touches my lips, something rare, something almost unfamiliar. I inhale deeply, as though I can finally breathe, and finally exist beyond the weight of expectations. The warm glow of the sun filters through the canopy, a baby blue embrace I do not deserve.
"Excuse me, my lord...?"
A delicate voice reaches my ears, freezing my veins. My breath catches, my blue heart turning to ice. I open my eyes, silently praying that it is merely the illusion of the Echo Blossom, a trick played by the garden itself.
But it is not.
She is real.
Beneath a cascade of fiery red-orange hair, a young woman gazes at me, her expression one of mild curiosity. Her delicate features—small, upturned nose, soft cheeks reminiscent of a child's—are bathed in the golden light of the afternoon. Her eyes, deep and gleaming like polished amber, mirror the hues of her elegant gown. A dainty hat sits atop her head, exuding an air of innocence, while a diamond ring glimmers on her slender pinky finger. Strands of orange pearls rest against her throat, bordering on gold in the shifting light.
She smiles.
Dimples of an angel.
She is missing only her wings, and she could be mistaken for one of the white-blooded.
She crouches on the grass, unbothered by the pristine fabric of her dress, the very picture of childlike ease. In her left hand, she holds an orange Titrius flower, likely plucked carelessly from some marketplace meadow.
My heart falters—twice.
Princess Elisia.
She should not be here. She should be at the banquet, dining amongst nobles, indulging in an extravagant feast of the rarest delicacies. And yet, she sits here, watching me with the quiet amusement of one who has uncovered some hidden wonder.
I part my lips, my voice instinctive, bound by duty.
"Aston von Rosenmahl."
I bow deeper than necessary. The moment stretches, my mind racing. Why is she here? The banquet is in full swing. She should be surrounded by courtiers, sipping wine from golden goblets, not idling away in the seclusion of my family's rose garden.
Elisia rises gracefully, the Titrius blossom still resting in her palm, while her free hand gently presses against her hat to keep it in place.
"Rise," she says with a soft giggle, reveling in the untouched beauty of my childhood sanctuary.
I lift my gaze, and I see only her.
My eyes reflect the flickering gold of her own.
She is a spark in the depths of a mine of amber.
I suppress the thought with a slight shake of my head, but a cold shudder races down my spine. My father.
Elisia steps closer, too close. Instinctively, I shift back.
She notices, tilting her head slightly, arms curling behind her back. "Tell me, Aston. Why is the son of the host absent from his own banquet?" Her tone is playful, the turquoise leaves of the garden swirling around her in contrast.
"I-I am not welcome," I say without thinking.
My heart stammers—for a third reason.
I should not have said that.
My skin pales, the natural blue of my complexion deepening as though I am deathly ill. A poor first impression might cost me my monthly stipend. A month-long confinement would be expected. Too many blood extractions—perhaps even enough to remind me of my noble lineage, of who I am meant to be. But if my words tarnish the alliance between the Zentria Kingdom and House Rosenmahl—
Death would be the only certainty.
Perhaps I am overthinking. But with the Duke of this estate, one never truly knows.
Elisia, however, merely laughs. Soft at first, then bubbling into genuine mirth.
"Forgive me, Lord Rosenmahl. Hehe." She covers her mouth with a gloved hand, her apricot-colored silk crinkling slightly as she stifles her laughter. "I expected many things, but not this."
She laughs harder, her voice rich, uninhibited. The Titrius blossom slips from her fingers, forgotten as she wipes a stray tear from her cheek. Another step closer.
I remain still.
I can only watch her. The orange pearls at her ears, the hint of warm apricot at her gums, the light catching on the curve of her lips.
She smiles, and for reasons unknown, I do as well.
My lips twitch, mirroring hers against my will. My head spins, my balance wavering. The garden tilts. I stagger, knees buckling as I clutch my forehead. Heat—unbearable, searing.
The realization strikes me too late.
The spores of the Truth Mushroom.
A slow, bitter chuckle escapes me. So that's why…
A favored luxury amongst the elite. A tool of espionage, used to extract truth from the unwilling.
Sweat beads upon my brow, yet my body feels cold. Nausea grips me, yet I do not yield. My ears ring with silence, my vision blurring into shifting hues of green, blue, and violet. Elisia kneels beside me, concern evident in her sparkling amber eyes. She speaks, but her voice is lost to me, drowned by the pulsating light surrounding her.
I stare at her lips, the only thing unmoving in a world that is spinning.
My world dims.
The letter...