CH. 58 The Wallflower in the Moonlit Garden
Music drifts from the palace like warm honey.
Laughter.
Crystal glasses.
The rustle of silk, the clink of jewels, the kind of elegant chaos that only happens when nobles gather and pretend they like each other.
The Sixth Trial Ball is glowing at full force.
And I am absolutely, spectacularly, pointedly not in it.
Instead, I’m in the palace gardens, sitting on a cold marble bench under an arch of moonbloom flowers. My gown—my mother’s gown—pools around me like spilled starshine. My hair falls in perfect glossy curls.
I look like a dream.
I feel like a fraud.
Because tonight, when the sun dipped, the ugliness slipped off me like a cloak…
and she appeared again—the beautiful stranger I become.
And all I could think was:
How long until it breaks again?
How long until I’m a disappointment in daylight?
How long until Sorien looks at me and sees the wrong face?
I bury my face in my hands.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to the flowers. “People would kill to look like this. Meanwhile, I’m here having an existential crisis because my nose isn’t crooked.”
A soft voice answers from the shadows behind me.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
I freeze.
Sorien steps into the moonlight—mask off, cloak loose around his shoulders, the faintest sheen of sweat on him from dancing or running or possibly escaping Farro’s attempts at matchmaking.
He looks unfairly handsome.
And worried.
He walks toward me, slow and careful, like I’m a skittish animal that might bolt.
“You didn’t come inside,” he says.
“I’m here,” I mutter.
“In the gardens,” he clarifies. “Which is… notably not the ballroom.”
I shrug, pretending the moon is very interesting. “I wasn’t in a dancing mood.”
“That’s surprising,” he says softly. “You danced beautifully the last time.”
A painful spark hits my chest.
“I was someone else then.”
Sorien sits beside me—not too close, not too far. Just… there.
Quiet. Solid.
“I know what happened scared you,” he says gently. “It scared me too.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “That makes two of us.”
He turns to look at me fully. “Drew—Andromeda—whoever you are or were or think you should be—”
I wince. “Please don’t call me Andromeda. That feels like a punch to the spleen.”
“Then Drew,” he amends, voice low. “You didn’t come back to the ballroom because you’re afraid.”
“That obvious?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says. “But not for the reason you think.”
I blink at him.
He continues, quiet but firm:
“You’re not afraid of being ugly. You’ve lived with that your entire life. You’re afraid because being beautiful… means being seen. Truly seen. And that is much harder to survive.”
My breath catches.
He isn't wrong.
Not even close.
I fiddle with the fabric of my skirt, my voice small. “She cursed me for a reason, you know. Maybe I wasn’t meant to look like this.”
Sorien’s jaw tightens. “You weren’t cursed because of who you are. You were cursed because someone feared what you could become.”
I shake my head. “It’s going to come back. I know it is.”
“Then we’ll face it,” he says simply.
“We?” I echo.
“Yes. We.”
His hand moves—slow, cautious—before resting on top of mine.
Warm. Grounding. Real.
“You don’t have to hide from me again,” he murmurs.
I should look away.
I don’t.
“I don’t know how to be both,” I whisper. “Beautiful at night, ugly by day. It feels like two people are fighting inside me.”
“Then let them both be true,” Sorien says. “You’re still the same soul.”
My throat tightens.
He shifts closer, voice barely above a breath.
“Drew… I need you to understand something.”
A pause.
The moon waits with me.
“You were important to me long before I knew either face.”
A soft, painful warmth blooms in my chest.
“I should probably go back inside,” he adds. “They’re expecting the prince.”
“Then go,” I murmur.
He shakes his head.
“I’m not leaving you alone in a garden while you spiral.”
“Too late,” I try joking. “I’ve spiraled three times already.”
His lips twitch.
“Then I’ll stay until you stop.”
The music swells from the ballroom.
He offers his hand.
“Walk with me?”
I stare at it—
hesitating, trembling, terrified—
then place my hand in his.
And for once, I don’t pull away.