the King's petals

      “There are so many beautiful young women around you, Your Highness,” Aurora said softly, her gaze drifting toward the window, away from his eyes. “I’m certain you’ll find the one who can make Philos even greater.”

“It’s you.”

      The words tore through him. But he locked them deep inside. To say them would be to risk everything… And he wasn’t ready to lose her in reality.       “Many of guests have already left the palace,” he said instead. “Only four or five remain.”       She blinked, as if the words had barely reached her.       She missed it. The slow unraveling of the selection. The quiet departures. The narrowing of a future she hadn’t dared believe could include her.       And now, only a handful of names remained on the list.       “Next week,” Xavier said, his eyes fixed on her, “I’d like to take all of you on a hunt. Young ladies should understand what it truly means.”

A hunt… with His Highness?

      Aurora’s pulse quickened. She’d gone hunting many times with her father, sometimes with the boys from neighboring farms, but she always stayed on the edge of the action, silent and watchful, learning to read the forest through rustling leaves and snapped twigs. If she’d ever brought home a prey herself, her mother would’ve scolded her fiercely like “That’s not a good behavior for a lady.”       “I’ve been on hunts,” she admitted. “More than once. But I never brought back prey. Only wild berries, herbs or flowers. Things I could use for tinctures or meals.”       Xavier smiled a real, warm smile that softened the sharp lines of his princely composure.       “I haven’t heard you speak of your childhood in far too long.”       Aurora flushed, startled.

He truly listens? He truly interested in this?

      “My days were never dull,” she said, her voice tinged with distant fondness. “But without this I wouldn’t be who I am today.”       “No,” Xavier agreed softly, holding her gaze. “And for that, Lady Vale, I am deeply grateful. I’d give anything to live just one day of your childhood,” Xavier said, almost wistfully.       “Really?” Aurora’s eyes lit up. “It’s never too late, Your Highness!”       “I’m twenty-three, Lady Vale,” he sighed, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. “I can’t exactly go climbing trees or plucking berries straight from the bush like you do.”       “I’m twenty-three too, Your Highness,” she replied, tilting her head with a playful spark in her eyes. “And sometimes I think that it doesn’t matter how old I get, even at seventy, when I’m a wrinkled old grandmother with a walking stick and sagging knees… I’ll still swing on a rope swing if I see one!”       Xavier laughed softly, shoulders trembling slightly. It was a quiet sound, unguarded and warm, and somehow unbearably sweet.       Aurora watched him, startled by the tenderness that bloomed in her chest at the sound.

He really does have a lovely laugh.

      When he smiles, he becomes even more beautiful.

Dangerously beautiful.

      The thought circles in Aurora’s mind, stubborn as a hawk on the wing. And with it comes another, quieter but insistent:

Maybe my girls were right. Maybe I should stay.

      She watches him now. The way his laughter fades into a thoughtful calm, the way his fingers tap absently against his thigh, as if missing the weight of a hilt.       "How does he even hunt?", she wonders. He’d admitted archery was new to him, that close combat was his strength. Does he ride ahead with a lance? Use a short spear? Or does he prefer the sword, quick and brutal?       And then, unbidden, another question surfaces:

Who’s still here?

      Only four or five remained, he’d said. But which ones?       Lady Elianna, perhaps, elegant, polished, with her perfect curtsies and flawless singing.       Lady Camilla, whose fainting spells seemed more theatrical by the day.       Maybe Lady Isabelle, with her sharp wit and sharper eyes…       The thought should reassure her, a remind that she’s out of place among them.       Instead, it tightens something in her chest.       Because if the others are still here… Then he hasn’t chosen. And if he hasn’t chosen… Maybe there’s still time?       She truly was curious. Who was left in the palace?       She’d been here for two months now.       Haymaking season had long passed. Grandmother Josephine’s latest letter was thick with news from the Southern Lands lay on her desk, filled with stories of harvest festivals, stubborn goats escaping pens, children sneaking into the orchards, and the first rains kissing the dry earth.       Every word pulled at her like a rope tied to her soul.

Home!

      And yet...       She was pulled toward him too.       That was what terrified her most.       The way his gaze stayed on her longer than propriety allowed. The way his voice softened when he asked about her childhood, her grandmother’s remedies, the way the wind smelled in the South at dawn.

Yes.

      He had accepted her. Not as a noblewoman, not as a candidate, but as Aurora Vale. A barefoot, sharp-tongued and fierce ruler from the south part of Philos.       Because if she meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t have carried her through the palace gates like something precious.       If she meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t have come to her bedside night after night, holding her fever-warm hand in silence.       If she meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t have whispered, “The sun shouldn’t hide behind clouds,” as if her tears were his to wipe away.       Even if it was just princely courtesy. Even if...       It didn’t matter.       Because her heart didn’t care about “even ifs.”       It only knew this.       She was being torn in two.       One part longing for sun-drenched fields and the smell of rain on dry soil… The other aching for the quiet strength in his eyes, the warmth of his cloak, the way he said her name.

It’s hard. So hard to choose.

      “The Southerners are so proud of you, my lady,” Tara had once said.       But would they still be proud if she abandoned the lands her parents died defending if she traded vineyards and open skies for marble halls and a crown she never asked for?       And would they be proud if she turned her back on this? On the boy who looked at her like she was the only truth in a world of illusions and rode home alone, heart heavy with what might have been?       She felt like she was standing in a vast, shadowed cavern and two paths stretching before her. One leading home, familiar and sunlit, and the other winding into the unknown, lit only by the uncertain glow of a prince’s gaze.       “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she said softly, bowing her head. “You should rest. It’s grown so late… Forgive me for taking up your time.”       Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled at her sides.       She didn’t look at him.       Because if she did, she might not be able to let go.       She kept her eyes down, afraid that if she looked at him, the tears she’d been holding back would finally spill over.       Then... his hand.       Warm, gentle, tracing the curve of her cheek with a touch so tender it felt like a vow.       It was too close.       Dangerously close.       And certainly not written in any book of courtly conduct.       But that was the point, wasn’t it?       If she meant nothing to him, he wouldn’t dare to do this.       “Don’t cry anymore, Lady Vale,” he murmured. “And promise me you’ll recover soon. The apples are starting to spoil.”       “I… I obey, Your Highness,” she whispered, voice trembling.       He rose, turned, and walked toward the door without looking back.

Because if he had…

      If he’d seen the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers clutched the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her from running after him...       It would’ve been unbearable.       He left, and in his wake, Aurora’s mind went hollow. Empty.       Her heart, too, felt like a room abandoned. Walls echoing, hearth gone cold.       Somehow, she felt worse now than before he’d come.       His presence had been a quiet warmth, and now his absence was a draft that cut straight to the bone.       His cloak remained exactly where she’d left it, draped over the chair, still holding the faint shape of her fingers, still smelling of him.

Again, they’d failed to say what truly needed saying.

      Again, words had tangled in silence, and silence had spoken louder than either of them dared.       She wanted to go home. Missed it with a physical ache, like a limb gone numb. But the thought of hurting him, of walking away while his eyes still held that quiet, unspoken hope... It made her chest tighten until she could barely breathe.

What do I do?

      Tonight would be sleepless again. Not from fever, but from the storm inside her. Thoughts circling like birds with nowhere to land.       Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, she’d grown used to him.       To the low timbre of his voice that calmed her restless mind.       To the way his hand felt around hers. Steady, sure, like an anchor in rough seas.       To the brush of his thumb against her cheek, so light it could’ve been imagined…       To his half-smiles, rare and precious as morning light through storm clouds.       To the way he listened to know and to understand her.       And that was the cruelest truth of all.       She hadn’t just grown used to the prince. She’d grown used to her being seen.       And now, the thought of stepping back into invisibility, of returning to a life where no one held her hand in silence or remembered the way she drew the sky felt like losing herself all over again.       Meanwhile, in the chambers of the remaining guests, indignant whispers slithered through the dark like venom.       “What? He went toward her room again? Who does she think she is?”, Lady Elianna’s voice, sharp as shattered glass.       “We must do everything in our power to ensure the prince never even thinks of her!”, Lady Camilla, breathless with outrage.       “Where in the world have you seen such a ragged little nobody charm the future king like this?", Lady Sophia, punctuating her words with a sharp thud of her palm on the table.       “This girl is overstepping,” came Lady Beatrice’s measured, icy tone. “And he lets her. Mark my words. He’ll regret it.”       But far from their scheming circles, in the quiet solitude of his own chambers, Xavier sat by the window, quill in hand, parchment blank before him.       The ink had long dried on the nib. He hadn’t written a single word.       Outside, night had swallowed the gardens whole. Inside, the only light came from a single candle. Flickering and fragile.       Sleep eluded him.       From thoughts of her.       The way she’d tucked his cloak around herself like a shield, the raw honesty in her voice when she spoke of swinging on vines at seventy, the tears she tried so hard to hide, the way she remembered the shape of him against the ravine’s sky.       He set the quill down.       And whispered into the dark, as if she might somehow hear:

“Stay.”

      “My lady…”       When Simone and Tara eased the door open, they found Aurora huddled on the cold stone floor, still in her thin nightgown, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Silent tears traced slow paths down her cheeks, her eyes swollen and raw. She swayed almost imperceptibly back and forth, like a child trying to soothe a deep, nameless ache, oblivious even to her own motion.       “Should we… leave?” Tara whispered, her heart breaking at the sight.       Aurora didn’t answer.       She only turned her head slightly, just enough to glance toward the chair where his cloak still lay, untouched, waiting.       Something was piercing her soul.       Or someone.       And miles away, in a candlelit chamber high in the eastern tower, that someone sat with an unlit lantern in his hands, staring at nothing. Feeling the same hollow ache, the same quiet fracture in his chest.

They were apart.

Yet tethered.

      Tara drew three runes from the circle, her fingers lingering over the cool, etched stones before laying them out in a line. The firelight caught the ancient symbols, making them gleam like secrets pulled from the earth itself.       “Well? Don’t keep me waiting,” Simone whispered, leaning forward.       “Tiwaz. Sowilo. Uruz.”       Tara’s voice was low but certain.       “Victory. Wholeness. Strength. Together they bring power, inner fire, clarity and the will to move forward.”       Simone frowned.       “And what can we do with that?”       Tara met her eyes, resolve hardening in her gaze.       “We draw them on our lady’s skin before dawn on her wrist, where she’ll feel them with every pulse.”       Simone hesitated.       “You know she’ll refuse. She thinks this is just superstition.”       “She won’t refuse,” Tara said quietly, already grinding herbs into a dark paste with a mortar. “Not when her heart is this heavy.”       They slipped into the room quietly, and Aurora was already lying on the bed, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the ceiling as if her body had returned, but her spirit was still wandering somewhere between the Southern Lands and Sindersfell’s stone walls.

“My lady, may we have your wrist?”

      Simone asked gently, kneeling beside the bed.       Tara took Aurora’s hand in hers. Cool, trembling slightly. With a slender brush dipped in dark herbal ink, she began to trace the runes: Tiwaz, Sowilo and Uruz. One after another, precise and sure. As she finished, she murmured words in the old tongue like a lullaby from another age, then she blew softly over the symbols, sealing them with breath and intention.       “Try to sleep, my lady,” Tara whispered.       A long silence. Then, barely audible, hoarse with exhaustion and unshed tears:       “Forgive me, girls… Please… forgive me.”       Her voice wasn’t just asking for pardon, it was breaking.       For doubting herself. For leaving them in the lurch. For loving someone she believed she wasn’t meant to have.       Simone brushed a strand of hair from Aurora’s damp forehead. Tara pressed a kiss to her knuckles.       “There’s nothing to forgive,” Simone said firmly.       “You’re our lady. And we’re with you no matter which road you choose.”       To love him was like running across a field at night, barefoot and breathless, reaching for a star you knew you’d never catch.       It was like gathering petals scattered by the wind which are already losing the bloom they wore yesterday.

Love.

But what was it, truly?