The Royal Gardens of Oakhaven were a masterpiece of forced symmetry. Every white rose was pruned to the exact same height, and every gravel path was raked into perfect, concentric circles. To Elara, the gardens were a metaphor for her life: beautiful, expensive, and entirely suffocating.
She stood by the marble fountain, her spine a rigid line of sapphire silk. Beside her, Prince Alaric was mid-laugh, recounting a hunting story to a circle of fawning young lords. He was handsome in the way a statue is—striking, but made of cold material. He hadn't looked at Elara once since they arrived at the Equinox Gala.
"You look particularly radiant tonight, Lady Elara," Marquis Fenwick murmured, leaning in. "Though perhaps a bit... distant?"
"A lady’s thoughts are her own sanctuary, Marquis," Elara replied with a practiced, porcelain smile. "But I assure you, I am fully present."
It was a lie. She was calculating the grain tax for the Western Province in her head. Alaric had ignored the reports she sent him, and if the borders weren't reinforced before the frost, people would starve. She was the silent engine of his reign, the shadow architect of his popularity.
Then, the sky broke.
A streak of violet and white light tore through the clouds, shrieking across the atmosphere with a sound like tearing parchment. The musicians stopped mid-note. The wine glasses stayed frozen at the lips of the elite. With a deafening thrum, the object crashed into the center of the Grand Conservatory, shattering the glass dome into a million glittering diamonds.
"Assassins!" Alaric shouted, drawing his ceremonial sword. "Guard the perimeter!"
Elara didn't scream. She didn't faint. She stepped forward, her heels clicking rhythmically against the stone as the dust began to settle. In the center of the crater, amidst the ruins of rare orchids and broken glass, lay a girl.
She didn't look like a threat. She wore strange, short garments—blue fabric that hugged her legs and a white top with letters Elara didn't recognize. Her hair was a messy nest of brown curls, and her skin lacked the pale, translucent quality of the nobility.
"Ugh... my head," the girl groaned, sitting up. She looked around, her eyes wide and watery. "Is this... a cosplay event?"
Alaric stepped toward the crater, his sword lowering as he took in the girl's face. Elara watched his expression shift from defensive to mesmerized in a heartbeat. It was a look he had never, in ten years, given her.
"Who are you, traveler?" Alaric asked, his voice dropping an octave into a tone of protective gallantry.
"I’m Mia," the girl whispered, trembling. "I don't know where I am. I was just walking home from the library and then—" She started to cry, big, messy sobs that would have been considered scandalous for a noblewoman.
Alaric reached out a hand, helping her stand. "You are safe now. You are in the Kingdom of Oakhaven. I am Prince Alaric."
"A prince?" Mia gasped, clutching his arm. "Like... for real?"
Elara felt a cold prickle at the back of her neck. She stepped to the edge of the crater, her voice clear and authoritative. "Alaric, we need to quarantine the area. We don't know if she carries a blight or if this is a magical trap from the Southern Hegemony."
Mia looked at Elara, her lower lip trembling. "I'm not a trap! I’m just a person! Why are you being so mean?"
The circle of nobles whispered. Mean. The word hung in the air like a foul odor. Elara had spent her life being "just," "fair," and "correct." To be called "mean" for suggesting basic security protocols was a novelty she wasn't prepared for.
"Elara, for heaven's sake," Alaric snapped, not letting go of Mia’s hand. "Look at her. She’s terrified. She’s clearly the Maiden of Light mentioned in the Great Prophecy. Look at the way the mana clings to her."
"The prophecy requires a trial of blood and spirit, Alaric, not a crash landing in a garden," Elara countered, her voice remaining calm despite the heat rising in her chest. "She needs to be examined by the High Priest, not coddled in the Royal Wing."
"She needs a doctor and a friend," Alaric insisted. He draped his royal cape—the one embroidered with the Vance and Oakhaven crests—over Mia’s shoulders. "I will take her to the infirmary myself. Elara, handle the guests. Minimize the scandal."
"Handle the guests?" Elara repeated, her fingers tightening on her fan until the wood creaked. "The Conservatory is destroyed, the gala is in shambles, and you are carrying a stranger into the palace heart without a background check."
"I am the Prince," Alaric said, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp resentment. "And you, Elara, are starting to sound remarkably like my mother. It’s... exhausting."
He turned his back on her, guiding the sobbing Mia toward the palace. The crowd parted for them like the sea, gazes lingering on the "Saintess" with awe and on Elara with a budding, cruel curiosity.
Elara stood alone by the broken fountain. Her father, Duke Silas, appeared at her side moments later. He didn't offer a hand or a word of comfort.
"You let him leave the scene with her," Silas said, his voice a low hiss. "You’ve lost control of the narrative within five minutes of her arrival."
"She is an anomaly, Father. Logic will prevail once the novelty wears off."
"Logic has no place in a court that craves miracles, Elara. That girl is a miracle. You? You are just a bill that needs to be paid." Silas turned away, leaving his daughter in the wreckage of the garden.
Elara looked down at her hands. They were perfectly manicured, steady, and cold. For the first time in her life, she felt a flicker of something she had been taught to suppress: envy. Not for Mia’s beauty, for she was plain by Oakhaven standards. She envied the girl's right to be messy. To be weak. To be protected simply for existing.
Elara reached down and picked up a shard of the fallen Conservatory glass. It sliced her finger, a thin line of red blooming across her skin.
"The Maiden of Light," Elara whispered to the empty air.
She didn't know yet that Mia wasn't the villain of this story. Mia was merely the spark. The fuel was the decade of resentment Elara had buried under her "perfect" exterior. The fire was coming, and Oakhaven was made of wood.
Elara wiped the blood onto her sapphire dress, the stain turning a dark, bruised black. She straightened her spine, put on her porcelain smile, and went to manage the guests.
ns216.73.216.133da2
and then Add to home screen.