the King's petals

      Aurora had already spent four days confined to her room. Just as the physician had feared, fever had taken hold, and she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Waking only briefly, disoriented, before slipping under again. Simone and Tara never left her side, taking turns bathing her face, changing her bandages, whispering lullabies from the Southern orchards to soothe her restless murmurs.       They hadn’t told her and they never would that the prince had come.       Not once, but every evening, just after dusk.       He’d slip in quietly, cloaked in shadow and silence, and sit by her bedside. Without a word, he’d take her hand, pale and fever-warm, in his, as if anchoring her back to this world.       Sometimes he’d smooth her bangs from her forehead. Sometimes he’d just watch her breathe.       “Don’t tell her,” he’d said to Simone and Tara one night. “She doesn’t need to know.”       And they honored his silence.       The King and Queen had already been informed of what happened, and the conversation with their son had not been gentle.       “Have you lost your mind?” the King demanded.       “Father…” Xavier began.       “The patrol had already driven off the Wanderers! They were contained!”       “They were in the ravine,” Xavier replied, jaw set. “And I’ve fought them before. I knew what I was doing.”       The Queen, standing by the window with arms crossed, finally spoke.       “What of the girl?”       “She is still ill,” he said quietly. “Wakes for a moment, then slips back under.”       “She turned the entire palace upside down chasing after you,” the Queen added. “Ran through the gardens, stole a horse, vanished like a ghost… Do you have any idea what people are saying?”       Xavier met his mother’s gaze without flinching.       “Let them talk. She saved my life.”       The King exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.       “You realize what this means? If anything had happened to you…”       “She would have been the one in danger,” Xavier interrupted. “I left the palace without guards. She came alone. If anyone should’ve been punished, it’s me.”       A heavy silence fell.       Then the Queen stepped forward, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder.       “Then perhaps,” she said, “It’s time for you to stop pretending like she’s just another guest in this selection.”       Xavier didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes said everything.       “Three more carriages have left. There’s hardly anyone left.”       “Good,” Xavier said.       “Your mother has already shared my thoughts with you, I think,” the King said.       “Yes. And… Forgive me, Father, but no.”       The King studied his son for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. Not in disappointment, but in reluctant understanding.       “I made my choice the moment she set foot on Sindersfell’s soil,” Xavier added, his gaze steady. “Because she saw me. Not the prince, not the heir… Just me.”       The King exhaled, long and slow, as if releasing a burden he’d carried for years.       “Then may the stars guide you both,” he said at last. “Because if you bind your life to hers, you’ll be choosing a storm, not a shelter.”       Xavier smiled faintly.       “I’d rather ride the storm with her than sleep peacefully in a palace without her.”       “Is it true she’s planning to leave for home?” the Queen asked gently.       Xavier looked up, wary.       “How do you know?”       “Don’t forget, Xavier,” she said, “We’re your parents. We know everything that concerns you.” She paused. “The servants spoke with one of her handmaidens… And she told them everything.”       “If Lady Vale wishes to leave Sindersfell,” the King said, stepping forward, “We can’t forbid her. She is not a prisoner here.”       Xavier said nothing. He simply bowed his head, his silence heavy with unspoken words. Regret, longing, the ache of a choice slipping through his fingers.       The Queen watched him, her heart twisting. She knew that look.       It wasn’t the frustration of a prince denied a whim.       It was the quiet devastation of a man losing something he hadn’t yet dared to claim.       “I understand perfectly well… But I can’t…”       “Then give her time to recover,” the Queen said gently.       “I’ve grown too used to her,” he admitted, rubbing his temples. “I’ve met with the others these past days. Repeated the same walks, the same conversations, the same courtesies. But she…”       He exhaled, long and slow, as if the very thought of her left him breathless.       “She’s different. It’s as if everything else is just… nothing important. Only with her do I feel like I can breathe.”       The King and Queen exchanged a look.       “Mabe,” the Queen murmured, “That’s what true feeling is.”       The King rose from his chair and placed a firm, fatherly hand on his son’s shoulder.       “Then listen to your heart, my son. As the man you are when no one is watching.”       Xavier closed his eyes.       And for the first time, he didn’t try to silence the voice inside him that whispered only one name:

Aurora.

      That evening, he would visit her again. Maybe she’d be better? More awake, more herself?       His cloak still lay draped over the back of her chair, forgotten in the rush of fever and care, its folds quietly holding the memory of her scent mingled with his own.       Later that day, Chancellor Andrew would arrive with urgent documents, sealed parchments, border reports and petitions from the western provinces. But by midnight, those would be signed, filed away, and Xavier would finally be free.       As he waited, his thoughts drifted back to that night at the ravine. How he’d carried her through the palace gates, how she’d clung to him without even realizing it, her face pale but stubbornly proud. And then… How she’d told a stream of abusive language at the Wanderers before loosing her second arrow. He’d nearly laughed in the middle of battle.       A soft smile touched his lips now, unbidden.       She was fire wrapped in silence, steel hidden beneath grace. And he couldn’t imagine his world without her in it.       Only four or five carriages remained in the palace courtyard. The rest had departed, laden with very expensive gifts from the royal family. Crystal, silk, gilded trinkets meant to soften the blow of rejection.       Inside Lady Sophia’s chamber, voices rose in sharp, venomous whispers:       “What madness is this? What does she think she’s entitled to? Let her scurry back to her village and run wild through the fields as much as she pleases!”       “His Highness ought to teach her a lesson! What a nonsense!”       “It’s an insult to the Crown!”       “I even considered slipping something into her food, but with hundreds of eyes watching? Ah. It’s impossible.”       “You can’t be serious!”       “What well-bred lady inserts herself where she isn’t wanted?”       “What manners could she possibly have? Does she even know how to read or write?”       “Ha! I doubt it!”       They spoke as if walls had no ears, as if spite couldn’t travel on silk slippers and perfumed breath straight to the throne room.       But God forbid the prince overheard. And even if he didn’t… Someone would tell him.       Because everyone knew. He always listened. Whenever Aurora’s name was spoken.       Aurora woke up drenched in cold sweat, her nightgown clinging to her skin.       “God… what’s happened to me?” she groaned, pushing damp hair from her forehead.       “You’ve been unwell, my lady,” Tara said gently, already reaching for a dry cloth. “But the fever’s finally breaking. Don’t worry.”       Aurora blinked, her mind still fogged, but slowly drifting back to herself. Then, with sudden dismay, she whispered.       “I lost the clasp on my shoes… How pathetic…”       Her eyes drifted to the prince’s cloak, neatly folded at the foot of the bed. She reached out, fingers hovering just above the fabric as if it might burn her.       “I need to return his cloak… How many days has it been? He must be cold without it.”       “He hasn’t asked for it back, my lady,” Simone said softly, busying herself with fresh linens. “Not once.”       Aurora groaned, burying her face in her hands.       “I’ve never been so ashamed… Not even that time I hit Nero in the head with a rock!”       Simone couldn’t help but laugh.       “He’s long forgotten, my lady! Do you really think he still holds a grudge over a childhood stone?” She smiled, remembering the flustered boy who’d stammered love confessions under the orchard trees, always hoping Simone would notice him.       But Aurora wasn’t really listening. Her gaze had returned to the prince’s cloak, and the memory of his hands, warm and steady, holding hers through the fevered dark.       “He hasn’t asked for it back…”       And somehow, that quiet detail made her heart ache more than any wound.       “He… He didn’t come here, did he?” Aurora asked.       “Well…” Simone and Tara exchanged a guilty glance.       “Oh no… Please tell me he didn’t…”       Holy skies!       A nightmare. A complete disaster.       Please, let it not be true.

A knock at the door.

      Aurora, who had been standing unsteadily by the chair, clutching its back for support, the prince’s cloak draped over its arm, whipped her head toward the sound.       The door opened.       And there he was.

Xavier.

      Aurora’s soul screamed. She wanted to vanish, to melt into the floorboards, dissolve into smoke, anything but be seen like this.       Barefoot, hair wild, wrapped in a thin nightgown that had seen better days, one knee swathed in bandages, cheeks still flushed from fever.       Mortification burned hotter than any fever.       Instinctively, she snatched the cloak from the chair and wrapped it around herself like a shield.       Xavier paused just inside the doorway, and then, with the faintest, knowing curve of his lips, said:       “I see you’ve taken a liking to my cloak, Lady Vale.”       “No… No, Your Highness!” Aurora stammered, forcing her voice to stay steady while her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

He saw her like this!

      Hair loose and tangled, nightgown wrinkled, bare feet dusty from pacing, the bandage on her knee peeking out beneath the hem…       It was indecent. Undignified. Unforgivable.       Her mind reeled.

Why didn’t they warn me?! Why didn’t I check the mirror?!

      Simone and Tara, sensing the sheer catastrophe unfolding, sprang into action.       “Your Highness, please, won’t you sit?”       Simone offered quickly, pulling a chair forward with perfect composure, though her eyes flashed with silent apology toward her lady.       Tara, meanwhile, darted to the wardrobe, already reaching for a shawl. Anything to spare Aurora further humiliation.       But Xavier didn’t move toward the chair.       He simply stood there, watching her. The way her fingers gripped the cloak like a lifeline, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly, the flush of panic rising beneath her fever-pale skin.       And then, softly, as if sharing a secret only they could hear, he said:       “You look far more alive like this.”       Aurora froze.       And for the first time since she’d woken, her panic stilled, not because she’d been rescued from embarrassment…       But because he hadn’t seen it as embarrassment at all.       “I’m so deeply ashamed before you, Your Highness…” Aurora said, bowing her head low, fingers still clutching his cloak like an anchor. “I failed to keep my word. I will return your cloak.”       “As you wish, Lady Vale,” he replied softly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.       Their eyes met. And in that silence, words passed without sound.       Regret. Relief. Something tender and unspoken, weaving between them like a morning mist.       Tara gently squeezed Simone’s hand, and without a word, the two slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind them.       Let them have this moment.       “You frightened me,” Xavier admitted, his voice quieter now, stripped of ceremony.       “I’m sorry…”       “I’m just glad you’re yourself again.”       “Forgive me for the trouble. I wasn’t quite myself these past two days.”       “Two?” He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of dry amusement in his eyes. “Sorry, but it’s been five days.”       Aurora’s eyes widened in disbelief.       “Five…?!”       He gave a small, rueful shrug.       “And as you can see, I haven’t been thrown in the dungeon yet.”       “Your parents were furious, weren’t they?” she whispered, her heart sinking. “Because of me…”       She sank onto the edge of the bed, her face shadowed with guilt.       Xavier stepped closer enough to bridge the space, but not enough to overwhelm.       “They were concerned,” he said carefully. “But not for the reasons you think.”       “They have to be furious because I took such liberties! Where I’m from, girls who act like this get their hair cut off or worse… They can be locked without food for days!”       “There are no such customs here, Lady Vale,” Xavier said with a quiet chuckle.       “This is a catastrophe…” she murmured, looking away, cheeks burning.       Then, without warning, he took her hand in his.       “Don’t say that,” he said gently. His gaze dropped to her legs, to the bandaged knee. “How is it? The wound?”       “Much better, thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.       “May I?” he asked, already reaching with his other hand to gently check the dressing.       The moment his fingers brushed the edge of the bandage, Aurora’s breath caught. Heat flooded her chest, rushed to her cheeks, coiled low in her stomach like kindling catching fire the instant a spark hits dry wood.       Because his touch, which is so careful, deliberate, laced with concern, felt more intimate than any courtly dance, any whispered flirtation in gilded halls.       “You shouldn’t trouble yourself so, Your Highness…”       “This happened because of me, Lady Vale.”       “No! You’re absolutely blameless!”       She quickly lowered her leg, tucking it beneath the folds of his cloak as if she could vanish inside it.       “I came every day,” he said simply.       Aurora’s face burned crimson.

Every day?

      He’d seen her like this, feverish, muttering nonsense, half-dressed, helpless… Every single day?       “I’m terribly sorry for taking up your time, Your Highness,” she stammered, unable to meet his eyes. “You must be so occupied with your duties…”       “That’s my choice.”

Three words. That was all.

      But they unraveled something inside her.       He chose to come. He chose to stay. He chose her. Not the polished court lady, not the obedient bride, but the wild, wounded girl who ran through the night to save a prince she thought she wasn’t worthy of.       “I haven’t even asked how you are, Your Highness,” Aurora said, studying him intently. His hair was neatly tied back, gleaming like spun gold against the deep black of his doublet. It’s a stark, striking contrast that made her catch her breath.       “I’ve been waiting for you to regain your strength, Lady Vale,” he replied calmly. “We weren’t practiced with the apples. You did promise.”       Aurora blinked, then a small and surprised laugh escaped her.       Of all the things to remember… You choose that?”       His eyes held hers, steady and soft.       “Some promises are worth keeping.”       “We will absolutely do it, Your Highness! But… I don’t have a sword with me. Sorry…”       “That’s not a problem, I assure you.”       “You’re embarrassing me, Your Highness,” she murmured, though her lips twitched.       “Then promise me you’ll get some fresh air. Or I’ll take you myself for a walk with swords and apples.”       “Right away like that?” Aurora smiled.       “Yes. So you need to recover fast.”       “I’ll do my best, Your Highness,” she said softly.       And then, almost without thinking, her fingers brushed his hand.       The touch lingered just a second too long. Long enough for Xavier’s breath to catch.       She quickly withdrew her hand.       “I’m overstepping again. Forgive me…”       “There’s nothing you need to hide from me,” he said gently.       “This behavior is improper for a guest,” she sighed, looking down, her cheeks flushed once more.       Xavier lifted his gaze to her, the way her lashes lowered, the way she fidgeted with the edge of her nightgown.       “Don’t speak like that, Lady Vale,” he said. “Sindersfell’s doors are always open to you.”

“And so am I”

      His thoughts whispered, but he dared not to say it aloud. Not now.       Aurora rose carefully from the bed. She folded his cloak and set it aside, then, limping slightly, made her way to the small writing desk by the window.       “Would you like to see something?” she asked. She picked up a sheet of parchment, slightly crumpled at the edges. “I tried to draw the sky. Nights in the South are so much darker, deeper and almost endless. Here, the sky is a little gray, even at night… That’s how I found you so quickly when Celeste and I raced to the ravine. The first thing I saw were the cliffs and you, standing with your back to me, sword in hand.”       She held out the sketch.       “I’m not a painter, of course… But I remembered your silhouette,” she added, tugging self-consciously at her nightgown.       Xavier rose smoothly and moved to her side, offering his arm. Not with the formality of a prince, but with the quiet certainty of someone who knew her strength and her limits. He guided her back to the bed, supporting her weight as gently as a warrior carries a wounded comrade from the field. Steady, respectful, never overstepping.       Careful not to jostle her injured knee, he took the sketch from her hands and placed it on the nightstand before fluffing the pillow and settling it behind her back.       “This is… beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never seen myself drawn like this.”       “How do you like it?” she asked, honest and unguarded, with no thought of flattery or favor.

“The drawing? Interesting. But you… You’re breathtaking.”

      The words shimmered in his mind but he held them close, unspoken.       “Let me cover myself with the blanket, Your Highness,” Aurora said, pulling the linen up to her collarbone but she knew it was pointless. “You’ve already seen… everything. How mortifying!” she sighed, already berating herself again for her lack of decorum.       “Such things aren’t worn here actually,” Xavier replied, his tone calm, almost thoughtful, “But I like it. The fabric is so light… Like morning mist.”       A faint, surprised smile tugged at her lips.       “I’ll have several sets of nightclothes made for you when I’m home. As thanks.”

“When I’m home.”

      The words landed like a stone in still water.       So she still planned to leave.

No… Oh no.

      Xavier kept his expression calm, but inside, a storm raged. He wanted to seize her hand and say “Don’t go,” but he only nodded.       “I’d be grateful, Lady Vale.”       “The fabric is called ‘batiste,’” she added, brightening slightly despite herself. “Feel it!” She extended her arm toward him. The sleeves of her nightgown, delicate, ruffled, almost weightless, fluttered like moth wings in the air between them.       Without thinking but with absolute certainty, Xavier took her wrist and pressed his lips to the inside of it, just below the pulse.

It was bold.

No.

More than bold.

      It was an impulse, raw and sudden… Executed with such tenderness that tears welled instantly in Aurora’s eyes.       “Your Highness…” she choked out, voice trembling.       He said nothing. Only watched as she fought to hold back her tears. Like she had on their first day, when his words had unwittingly brought her close to tears. But then, as now, it wasn’t his fault. And yet… He couldn’t bear the sight of her pain.       “The sun shouldn’t hide behind clouds, you know that,” he murmured, lifting his hands to gently brush away the tears from her soft, round cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t cry.”       “I understand what you’re trying to say, Your Highness,” she whispered.       “And what is that?”       “That I should stay.”