the King's petals

      Whispers from afar began to ripple through the palace corridors. Soft at first, like rustling leaves, then growing louder, threading through corridors and stairwells, carried on the breath of ladies-in-waiting and courtiers alike.       “Did you see how the prince smiled with that Southern lady?”       “He spent the whole morning with her! Just the two of them!”       “She didn’t even curtsy properly, yet he listens to her like she’s royalty…”       “And that dagger she gave him? He hasn’t taken it off his belt since.”       In the east side of the palace, Lady Elianna fanned herself with exaggerated calm while murmuring to her companions:       “Well, I suppose raw manners are the new fashion in Sindersfell.”       But in the west side of palace, where the morning sun still warmed the stone floors, the words mattered little to Aurora. She was already thinking of the next time she’d see him. Of apple slices midair, of promises whispered beneath chestnut trees, of a prince who dreamed of hayfields and barefoot runs through summer rain.       And somewhere in the room, Xavier stood near the balcony, fingers resting on the hilt of a dagger that bore a message in Southern steel, watching the path where she’d disappeared, and wondering how long it would take before he could run away from duty again… Just to be near her.       Many of the guests had already set their faces against the “ordinary Southern lady.” To them, she was brash, disrespectful, daring to act as if she belonged among nobles.       Aurora was the same age as the prince. That, perhaps, was why he found her interesting. Among the twenty, there were older women, poised and practiced in courtly arts, and girls barely out of childhood, wide-eyed and eager. They shimmered like sunlight on water. Polished, dazzling, perfect.

But none of them held what he seemed to be searching for.

      Back in her chambers, a soft, stifled sob broke the quiet.       “My lady…” Simone whispered, kneeling beside her.       “Why won’t you speak?” Tara asked gently, her hand hovering near Aurora’s shoulder.       Aurora said nothing. She only bowed her head, drawing her knees to her chest, as if trying to fold herself into something smaller, something less visible, less vulnerable.       She hadn’t cried out of fear, nor out of shame.       But because, for the first time, she felt the cruel weight of a truth she couldn’t outrun…

She wanted him to see her. Not as a guest. Not as a candidate. But as Aurora.

      And that, more than any arrow, any dagger, any courtly rule, terrified her.       “I think… we should leave the palace,” Aurora said quietly, her voice frayed at the edges.       “No, my lady! It’s impossible!” Simone exclaimed.       “Is this because of what they’re saying about you?” Tara pressed, kneeling before her. “You’ve only seen His Highness once in the whole week! Don’t listen to their idle gossip!”       Aurora closed her eyes.       “They’re right,” she whispered. “It’s not idle gossip.”       Her hands tightened around her knees. The words hung in the air like smoke. Thin, but suffocating.       She wasn’t meant for this world of veiled glances and whispered judgments.       And yet… leaving now would feel like surrender.       Like admitting that a girl from the South didn’t deserve to stand, even for a moment, in the light of a prince’s attention.       “He notices only you, believe me!” Simone insisted.       Aurora looked up, her eyes weary but clear.       “Do I even want that attention?”       Yes, their eyes met across crowded rooms just for a second, but long enough to stir whispers and tighten jaws among the other guests. Those glances, so quiet yet charged, had begun to unsettle the delicate balance of the court.       Back home, the hayfields were golden under the summer sun, the air thick with the hum of bees and the scent of drying grass. But here, in these marble halls, Aurora felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather, and a loneliness that no silk dress could warm.       “Maybe,” she said softly, more to herself than to them, “We’ll be home before the rains come.”       “Do you really want to go home?” Tara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.       “Yes,” Aurora replied, hugging her knees a little tighter. “Isn’t that why people call it home?”       He probably wouldn’t even notice if she left.       And honestly she didn’t want him to come after her.       That kind of grand, storybook chase belonged in ballads, not in the real world, where duty outweighed desire and princes didn’t abandon thrones for women who smelled of hay and honesty.       It was too impossible. Too fragile. Too foolish to hope for.       Aurora sighed, long and quiet, like the wind slipping through an open window at dusk.       “What are your observations, my son?” the Queen asked, standing in the prince’s chambers, her voice calm but searching.       “You know,” he sighed, not looking up from the scattered papers on his desk.       “We knew from the very beginning,” she said gently.       Xavier, who had been sorting through letters and reports, stilled.       “But…”       “Think again,” she urged, her tone soft yet firm like a hand guiding him back to a path he’d almost stepped off.       “You can still change your mind, there’s time,” the Queen said, her eyes filled with quiet understanding.       “I wanted to ask her for another meeting,” Xavier admitted.       “She’s uncomfortable here. It’s plain to see.”       “I can’t let her go,” he said, the words escaping like a confession.       The Queen watched him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a faint, knowing sigh, she reached out and touched his shoulder.       “Then don’t,” she said softly. “But be sure, truly sure, that what you’re holding onto isn’t just a feeling… But a future worth fighting for. Your father says Lady Elianna is also a suitable choice,” the Queen offered carefully.       “No, Mother. Absolutely not.”       “She comes from a wealthy house, brings an excellent dowry and is remarkably talented.”       “I understand all that… But I have nothing to say to her. Not a single thing.”       “And the Southerner?”       Xavier paused. His fingers stilled on the parchment in his hands.       “She’s…”       The Queen placed her hand gently on his shoulder.       “Speak plainly, my son.”       He met her gaze, voice quiet but certain.       “I feel like we’re similar like kindred spirits.”       Lady Vale was a true warrior raised not on tedious etiquette lessons or dusty tomes of courtly theory, but on action, instinct and earth-stained hands.       Her father had taught her every kind of weapon, regardless of her being a girl. “Strength and will — that’s what matters.” He believed fiercely that a girl should never have to wait for someone else to defend her, and that belief forged Aurora into someone who met the world head-on, unflinching.       Her grandmother, Josephine, passed down the quieter arts: how to heal with herbs, how to brew tinctures that could mend a broken rib or ease a fevered mind, and, when necessary, how to lace darts or arrows with just enough poison to stop an enemy before he drew his weapon.       Her mother gave her the grace to walk among nobles. How to hold a teacup, how to speak without sharp edges when diplomacy demanded it, how to wear fine silks without losing herself in them.       Together, everything shaped Aurora not into a perfect lady of the court, but into something rarer. Into a woman whole in herself, grounded in both steel and soil, equally ready to heal or to fight.       Tara and Simone weren’t just her handmaidens. They were Aurora’s oldest friends, bound to her since childhood.       Simone was serious and sharp-minded, the kind of girl who carried scrolls in her apron pockets and secretly dreamed of opening a school where village children could learn to read, count, and think for themselves. Discipline, logic, and quiet determination were her nature.       Tara, though often flighty and full of whims “a head full of wind,” as Aurora teased, was fiercely loyal and far cleverer than she let on. She had a gift for old signs and symbols, could read runes carved into stones and knew which ones warded off ill luck and which summoned courage before battle.       They’d grown up together, all three of them, too young for the burdens they carried, yet forced to mature in the harshest way. Their childhood had been stolen long before they reached womanhood.       They’d come to Vale’s residence as children, rescued by villagers from one of the Southern Lands after a brutal encounter with the Wanderers. They had meant to kill them. Two orphaned girls caught on the road with no one to protect them. But the villagers fought back, brought them home, and placed them under the roof of the Vale’s family.       From that day on, they were sisters by choice, forged in fire and tempered by loyalty. No titles, no blood, just an unbreakable pact made in the shadow of loss.       “I won’t have favorites, Mother. I don’t need the attention of countless noblewomen. I want my choice to be one and only one for life. A few days were enough for me to understand what I truly want.”       The Queen studied her son, the resolve in his eyes, the quiet certainty in his voice. Then, softly, she smiled.       “Then follow your heart.”       “I beg your pardon, Your Excellency,” Simone said, dipping into a quick curtsy as she spotted Chancellor Andrew in the corridor.       “Oh, come now, just ‘Andrew’ is okay,” he replied with a small, kind smile. Then he noticed the tension in her shoulders, the urgency in her eyes. “What’s happened? You seem terribly upset.”       “My lady wishes to leave Sindersfell,” Simone said quietly, her voice steady but strained.       Andrew’s eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise.       “Leave? But why?”       “There are, ahem… Several reasons,” she said, glancing away for just a moment. “I think you can guess at least one of them.”       “His Highness?” Andrew asked softly.       Simone didn’t answer but the silence spoke louder than words.       “The spiteful glances and homesickness outweigh the fact that my lady has found a connection with His Highness,” Simone admitted.       “It’s not a reason for Lady Aurora to waste her tears on that,” Andrew said gently, folding his hands behind his back. “Believe me. His Highness is firmly set on Lady Vale. It’s more than evident. Take the garden meeting, for example. Do you truly think he’d cancel a council session just to practice archery with any of the others? No. He chose her because he wanted to.”       He paused, his sharp eyes softening slightly.       “The court may whisper, the other ladies may bristle, but none of that matters if the prince has already made his choice. And I suspect… he has.”       Simone bit her lip, glancing toward the corridor where Aurora’s chambers lay.       “But what if she leaves before he can say it aloud?”       “Then,” Andrew said, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips, “I trust His Highness won’t let her go without a fight.”       The handmaiden nodded in quiet understanding at the Chancellor’s words.       “You understand perfectly well, Simone,” Andrew continued, “That it would be no trouble at all for him to turn your carriage around or simply ride to your estate himself and take Lady Vale by the hand, bringing her back to Sindersfell.”       He allowed himself a small, wry smile.       “He is a warrior, however quiet and composed he may seem.”       Andrew didn’t bother hiding this truth. He’d known His Highness since the prince was a boy with scraped knees and a stubborn streak that wouldn’t bend, even for kings.       Simone exhaled slowly and shook her head, her fingers tightening around the folds of her skirt.       “Then… should we wait?”       “There’s nothing else to do,” Andrew said quietly. “We will wait until His Highness decides to act.”