Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Astra
Two weeks pass like water through my fingers, and I finally understand the weight of being caged in gold.
I can’t leave the palace. Can’t venture beyond the carefully mapped territories Lucian deems “safe.” My world has shrunk to a handful of rooms, corridors that lead nowhere, and the suffocating realization that I have nothing to do.
Nothing except tend my plants.
The herb garden Lucian gave me is my sanctuary—the one place where I have complete freedom to move, to create, to exist without feeling like I’m being watched by invisible eyes.
Here, among the moonbell, silverleaf, dragonfern, and carefully cultivated nightshade, I can pretend I still have purpose.
This is where I am now—or rather, I’m in the small laboratory that connects to the garden through glass doors that catch the afternoon light.
I’m grinding dried willow bark with my mortar and pestle—the beautiful glass ones Lucian bought me in that little mountain town, back when I thought he was a simple mercenary who cared about my work.
The memory stings, but I push it aside. At least I still have my herbs. At least I can still help people, even if it is only the palace staff.
Luna stretches in a patch of sunlight streaming through the windows, her black fur gleaming.
Having her back has been the only bright spot in these strange, isolated weeks.
Three days ago, Lucian appeared at my door with her in his arms—apparently, he’d given her to Seth to keep safe during everything that was happening with the Council.
Seeing her again, feeling her familiar weight in my lap, made me cry with relief.
At least one thing in my life has remained constant.
The pestle turns in steady circles, reducing the bark to a fine powder.
I’m making a pain tonic for Marcus, the elderly gardener who helps me tend the more delicate plants.
His back has been bothering him horribly, and the palace healers keep giving him useless drafts that do nothing but make him drowsy.
I’m so focused on getting the consistency just right that I don’t hear the door open behind me.
“Well, well.”
The voice is gravelly, imperious, and not unfamiliar. I spin around so fast I nearly knock over my stool, the mortar clutched protectively against my chest.
An elderly man stands in the doorway—tall despite his obvious age, with iron-gray hair and the kind of bearing that suggests he has never been denied anything in his life.
For a moment, I don’t recognize him. But there’s something about his stance, the way he surveys my laboratory like he owns it. ..
I gasp silently when I realize I’m staring at the King. He is dressed simply, without the royal regalia I’ve seen in portraits, but it’s him, alright.
Luna wakes up and pads over to investigate this intruder with typical feline curiosity. She doesn’t sense a threat, but that does nothing to calm my racing heart.
I take a step backward, forgetting about the stool entirely. It scrapes against the stone floor with a harsh sound that makes me wince. “Your Majesty, I—”
“As rude as my son,” King Alaric says with a sharp snort. “Two weeks you’ve been in my palace, and you haven’t once come to greet me officially.”
Oh, crap. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I didn’t know—I mean, Lucian said—”
“My son says many things,” he interjects, taking a step into my sanctuary. “Most of them nonsense. Now, give me a chair. Quickly. I’m old, and my joints hurt.”
I practically trip over myself scrambling to offer him a place to sit. It’s just a simple, wooden chair, nothing fancy enough for royalty, but he settles into it with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Better,” he says, then fixes me with a piercing stare. “What are you doing?”
I glance at the mortar still clutched in my hands, then at the array of herbs and equipment spread across my worktable. “I—I’m creating a tonic. For aches and pains.”
“For whom?”
“Marcus, the gardener who helps me with the garden beds. His back has been—”
“So, you’ll help a gardener,” King Alaric cuts me off, his voice dangerously quiet, “but not your own father-in-law?”
“I...” I blink at him, completely lost. “What’s wrong with you?”
The explosion is immediate and deafening. “What’s wrong with me?” he roars, making Luna’s ears flatten against her head. “I’m old! My hips ache constantly! My back seizes up every morning, and my knees creak like rusted hinges! That’s what’s wrong with me!”
I stare at this unpredictable man, my mind reeling. I have no idea how to respond to him, a mercurial royal who apparently takes personal offense at my herb-mixing priorities.
“Y–You could try the tonic,” I say hesitantly. “If you’d like.”
His eyes narrow to suspicious slits. “Are you trying to experiment on me?”
“No!” The word comes out sharper than it should. “I mean, I’ve made this remedy many times. I used it on myself whenever I was sore from...from my old life.”
This seems to satisfy him somewhat. He holds out an imperious hand. “Give it here.”
I pour a small measure of the finished tonic into a clean cup, adding just enough honey to make it palatable without destroying the medicinal properties. King Alaric takes it and drains the entire thing in one gulp.
His face immediately contorts in disgust. “Bitter.”
“Sugar would destroy the composition,” I explain. “The honey helps some, but—”
“Harrumph.” He sets the cup down with more force than necessary. “Now. What are you doing with your time, girl?”
“I–I’m here. In the herb garden. Most days.”
“Why aren’t you socializing? Learning your duties? Meeting the ladies of the court?”
I look at him blankly. “Lucian says it’s safer here.”
King Alaric’s expression shifts into something that might charitably be called incredulous disgust. “My son,” he says slowly, “is a complete moron. And you’re an even bigger one for listening to him.”
My mouth falls open. I’ve never heard anyone speak about the Crown Prince this way.
“From tomorrow,” he continues as if he hasn’t just insulted the heir to his throne, “I’m assigning you proper royal tutors. Etiquette, court protocol, languages, history—everything a future queen needs to know.”
Future queen. The words make my head spin. “Your Majesty, I don’t think—”
“I also want grandchildren,” he says bluntly, making my cheeks burst into flames. “Preferably sooner rather than later. I’m not getting any younger.”
I think I might faint. This conversation has spiraled completely out of my control, and I have no idea how to respond to the King as he casually discusses my reproductive future.
“Furthermore,” King Alaric continues, apparently oblivious to my mortification, “I am going to be coming by here more often. I want to see what it is you’re up to.”
The pronouncement has the weight of a royal decree. I realize with dawning horror that my peaceful sanctuary has just been invaded by the most powerful man in the kingdom, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
“Now,” he says, relaxing back in the chair like he plans to stay for hours, “have lunch brought here. Something substantial. None of those tiny, palace portions that wouldn’t feed a sparrow.”
I stare at him for a long moment. Luna cautiously approaches to sniff at his boots; she seems to approve of him, which is more than I can say for myself right now.
With a sigh that feels like it comes from the depths of my soul, I resign myself to an entire afternoon of entertaining this temperamental, elderly man who apparently plans to adopt me, whether I like it or not.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say quietly. “I’ll send for lunch immediately.”
Luna, having completed her inspection of his boots, springs into his lap, circles twice, stretches luxuriously, and lies down with a contented purr.
King Alaric looks down at her with surprise, then begins stroking her fur. “Well,” he mutters, “at least someone in this palace has sense.”
As I watch him examine my laboratory with keen, intelligent eyes, I can’t help but wonder if having the King as a regular visitor is going to make my quiet life significantly more complicated.
The next week is torture. Pure, unrelenting torture.
Every morning at dawn, Lady Cordelia appears at my door with her sharp tongue and her endless lists of things I’m doing wrong.
Posture. Speech. The proper way to hold a teacup.
How to curtsy to different ranks of nobility.
The precise angle at which I should tilt my head when being addressed by someone beneath my station.
“Shoulders back, chin up,” she snaps for the hundredth time this morning. “You’re meant to be a future queen, not a hunched-over shopkeeper.”
I grit my teeth and adjust my posture. Again.
After etiquette comes a language lesson with Master Thorne, who speaks to me exclusively in the Old Tongue until my head throbs with the effort of translating his rapid-fire instructions.
Then there’s history with Lady Penrose, who drones on about ancient treaties and bloodline politics until I’m fighting to keep my eyes open.
By the time I’m released for the afternoon, I’m exhausted and irritated and desperate for the peace of my herb garden.
Except, it’s not peaceful anymore.
“Child, what are you doing?” King Alaric’s voice booms across the greenhouse as I push through the glass doors.
I stop short, my shoulders sagging in defeat. He’s sitting in what I’ve come to think of as “His Majesty’s Chair”—a cushioned seat he had a servant bring in three days ago when he decided my little, wooden chair wasn’t comfortable enough for his royal bones.
Luna is curled in his lap, purring like the content cat she is. The traitor.
“Your Majesty,” I say, dropping into what I hope is an acceptable curtsy. Lady Cordelia would probably find fault with it, but I’m too tired to care.
“Stop that ridiculous bobbing,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I asked what you’re doing.”
“I was going to check on the moonbell. The humidity has been affecting the blooming cycle, and—”