Chapter 21
MAYA
I wake to the gentle pressure of Thorian's lips against my temple, his arm tightening around my waist as morning light filters through the living wood shutters of our chambers.
For the first time in weeks, the overwhelming thrum of divine power has dulled to a manageable whisper, and I feel almost.. . normal.
"Good morning, my queen," he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep. The tenderness in those simple words makes my heart flutter like I'm still the nervous botanist who first arrived at his academy, rather than the fertility goddess carrying his heir.
"Mmm," I sigh contentedly, turning in his arms to study his face in the soft dawn light that seeps through the translucent flower petals covering our windows.
Even after all we've shared, he still takes my breath away—the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the way his golden-green eyes warm when they look at me, the flowering scars that mark his skin like living art.
"You feel different this morning," he observes, his large hand spanning my belly where our child grows. "The power isn't singing as loudly through your veins."
"Is that bad?" A thread of worry creeps into my contentment. "Should I be concerned?"
"No, sweetheart." His thumb traces gentle circles over the silk of my nightgown. "Your body is learning to regulate the divine magic more efficiently. It's a sign of adaptation, not weakness."
The reassurance in his voice, the absolute confidence with which he speaks about my condition, fills me with warmth. This is why I trust him so completely—his eight centuries of experience, his careful attention to every detail of my wellbeing, the way he makes me feel precious beyond measure.
"I had the most wonderful dream," I tell him, snuggling closer to his warmth.
"We were in a garden together, but not any of the ones here in the palace.
Somewhere wild and untamed, with flowers I'd never seen before.
Our children were playing among the blossoms—not just one child, but several.
They all had your eyes but my curiosity, asking endless questions about every plant they found. "
Thorian's expression grows soft, almost vulnerable. "How many children?"
"In the dream? Four, maybe five. They seemed to range in age, like we'd had years together to build our family." I reach up to trace the line of his jaw. "Do you want more children after this one?"
"With you? As many as you're willing to give me." His voice carries an intensity that makes me shiver with anticipation. "I want to watch you grow round with my heirs, want to see our children learn your scientific curiosity and your gentle heart."
"And your patience," I add with a smile. "Your incredible ability to nurture growth in everything you touch."
Something flickers across his expression—too quick for me to identify, but it looked almost like pain. Before I can ask about it, he's kissing me deeply, pouring what feels like desperate devotion into the connection between our lips.
"I love you," he whispers against my mouth, and there's something in his tone that sounds almost like a confession. "More than duty, more than court, more than the eight centuries of obligation that shaped me. You have become the center of my world, Maya."
The declaration should thrill me, but something about the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as me—sends a small chill down my spine. "I love you too," I respond, studying his face. "Thorian, is everything alright? You seem... troubled."
"Just overwhelmed by how much you mean to me," he deflects, though his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Centuries of emotional distance don't disappear overnight. Sometimes the depth of what I feel for you terrifies me."
I accept the explanation because I want to believe it, because the alternative—that something might threaten our happiness—is too frightening to contemplate. Instead, I lose myself in the warmth of his embrace, in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
"I should let you rest longer," Thorian eventually murmurs, though he makes no move to leave our bed. "Your power levels have been so intense lately. This respite is a gift."
"I don't want to rest," I tell him honestly. "I feel more like myself than I have in weeks. Maybe I could explore some of the palace areas I haven't seen yet? The living architecture here fascinates me—the way the trees grow in perfect harmony to create rooms and corridors."
"Of course." He presses another kiss to my temple. "Though perhaps avoid the older groves. Some of the ancient magical growths can be unpredictable, and I worry about exposure affecting our child."
The protective concern in his voice melts my heart completely.
This is the man who's shown me depths of pleasure I never imagined, who's given me power beyond my wildest dreams, who speaks of our future with such tender certainty.
Whatever momentary shadow I glimpsed in his expression must have been my imagination.
"I'll be careful," I promise. "Just some gentle wandering through the gardens and galleries. Nothing that might harm the baby."
"Good." He rises from our bed with fluid grace, already reaching for the formal court attire that marks him as king even in private moments. "I have meetings this morning—correspondence from other courts about trade agreements and territorial boundaries. Terribly boring administrative work."
I watch him dress with appreciation for the elegant lines of his body, the way the flowing robes emphasize his broad shoulders while accommodating the unique anatomy that sets him apart from human men.
Everything about him speaks of power held in careful check, of ancient authority that flows as naturally as sap through wood.
"Will you dine with me this evening?" I ask as he adjusts his ceremonial circlet. "We could use the smaller bower, make it intimate rather than formal."
"Nothing would please me more." His reflection in the polished wood mirror smiles at me with genuine warmth. "Wear the green silk dress—the one with the botanical embroidery. You look like a living garden in that gown."
After he leaves for his meetings, I take my time with my own morning routine, luxuriating in the gentle steadiness of my power rather than the overwhelming surges I've grown accustomed to.
My lady's maid helps me into a practical walking dress of deep burgundy velvet, perfect for exploring the palace's extensive grounds.
I spend the first part of the morning in the conservatory where I first met Thorian, marveling at how the living glass—grown from crystallized tree sap—houses magical ecosystems that shouldn't be possible.
Plants from different climates and seasons grow side by side, sustained by complex enchantments woven into the very walls.
But restlessness drives me deeper into the palace than I've ventured before.
Down corridors where the walls pulse gently with life, past windows formed from translucent leaves that filter sunlight into rainbow patterns.
The palace grows and shifts subtly around its inhabitants, passages widening to accommodate traffic, rooms adjusting their temperature based on occupancy.
My wandering eventually leads me to a section that feels older, more traditional.
Here the architectural magic is less refined, creating interesting fusions where newer growth has been grafted onto ancient tree trunks.
Flowering vines cascade from wooden balconies, their blooms releasing gentle phosphorescence that provides natural lighting.
At the end of a corridor lined with portraits grown into the living bark itself, I find a heavy wooden door that opens at my touch.
Beyond it lies a garden unlike any other in the palace—moonflowers bloom in luminous clusters among ancient oak trees, their pale petals glowing with natural magic that makes artificial lighting unnecessary.
This place feels sacred. Forgotten. Deeply, profoundly sad.
I follow a winding path deeper into the grove, past flowers that seem to glow brighter as I approach, as if responding to the power in my blood.
The Victorian-era iron benches placed at intervals along the path are elegant but show signs of weathering, as if they've sat here undisturbed for decades.
The path leads to a circular clearing where seven marble monuments stand in perfect formation, each surrounded by carefully tended flower beds. In the gaslight-free twilight of the grove, they gleam like bone in the moonflower's phosphorescent glow.
Seven graves in a memorial garden hidden away from the rest of the palace.
My blood turns to ice as I read the first inscription:
My blood turns to ice as I read the first inscription:
Lyra Moonwhisper
Beloved Daughter of the Mist Court
Age 156
Selected for Divine Transformation: Spring Equinox, 1823
Ascended: 14 days hence
"She bloomed beautiful and brief"
Selected for divine transformation. The phrase tugs at something in my memory, but I can't quite place it. I move to the next headstone, trying to understand what I'm seeing:
Celeste Brightblade
Noble of the Summer Court
Age 89
Selected for Divine Transformation: Summer Solstice, 1824
Ascended: 6 weeks hence
"Her light burned too bright for this world"
A pattern emerges as I read through all seven graves.
Each woman was selected for something called "divine transformation" during seasonal ceremonies.
Each "ascended" within months of selection.
The euphemistic language is beautiful but puzzling—ascended to where?
Why are they buried here if they achieved some kind of divine status?
And why does "divine transformation" sound familiar?
"My lady?"
I turn to find a Fae watching me with concerned eyes—androgynous features, bark-like skin, hair that shifts between autumn colors. They carry pruning shears and a watering can, clearly tending to the memorial gardens.