Chapter 21 #2
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to intrude. I was just exploring and found this place. It's beautiful, but so sad. Who were they?"
"I am Ash, keeper of these sacred grounds." They approach slowly, setting down their gardening tools. "These are the honored daughters who attempted the Great Work before you, goddess. Each one precious, each one mourned."
"The Great Work?" My confusion deepens. "I'm not familiar with that term."
Ash's expression grows guarded, as if they've revealed more than intended. "Perhaps His Majesty should explain such matters. I am merely a humble gardener."
"But they were selected for divine transformation," I press, gesturing toward the headstones. "What does that mean, exactly? And why did they... ascend... so soon after selection?"
"Some flowers bloom briefly but with great beauty," Ash says carefully. "Not all are meant for long seasons."
The non-answer frustrates me, but I can tell Ash won't say more. As I walk back to the palace, my mind churns with questions. Divine transformation. The Great Work. Seven women who were "selected" during seasonal ceremonies—just like I was selected during my arrival ceremony.
But surely that's coincidence. I was selected for a research fellowship, not for... whatever happened to these women.
That evening at dinner, I bring up the memorial garden casually, curious about Thorian's response.
"I found the most beautiful hidden garden today," I tell him over the roasted pheasant and wine. "With moonflowers and seven memorial monuments. Ash was tending them—such a peaceful, sacred feeling to the place."
Thorian's fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and something flickers across his expression. "Ah. You discovered the memorial garden."
"Who were they? The inscriptions mentioned divine transformation, but I don't understand what that means."
"Honored members of the court who... served important roles in our fertility ceremonies," he says carefully. "Their contributions to our magical practices were significant."
"But they're dead," I point out. "All quite young, and all within months of being selected for something. What happened to them?"
"The magical arts are not without risk," Thorian replies, his tone growing distant. "Not everyone is strong enough to channel the levels of power required for advanced fertility magic. They gave their lives in service to the court's survival."
His explanation makes sense, but something about his careful phrasing bothers me. "Were they volunteers? Did they understand the risks?"
"Of course." But he won't meet my eyes. "We would never ask anyone to sacrifice themselves unknowingly."
I want to believe him, but doubt has taken root.
Over the next few days, I find myself returning to the memorial garden, studying the inscriptions more carefully.
I notice details I missed before—the specific dates of selection always coinciding with seasonal fertility ceremonies.
The increasingly elaborate language about "divine calling" and "sacred transformation. "
Most disturbing of all, I realize that Isabella Thornweaver's grave is the newest, dated just two years ago. If the court regularly performs these dangerous fertility rituals, why has there been such a long gap before my arrival?
My academic training rebels against accepting Thorian's vague explanations. I need data, documentation, real answers. So I make my way to the palace library, hoping to research the court's ceremonial traditions.
The librarian, a elderly Fae woman with silver hair, is initially helpful in directing me to texts about fertility magic and seasonal ceremonies. But when I ask specifically about divine transformation rituals or the memorial garden, her demeanor changes completely.
"Such information would be restricted to His Majesty and the court physicians," she says stiffly. "Perhaps you should speak with him directly about your research interests."
"I'm his mate," I point out. "Surely I have access to court records?"
"The sacred mysteries are not for general study, even for honored guests." Her emphasis on 'guests' stings. "Some knowledge is too dangerous for the uninitiated."
Frustrated but not deterred, I try a different approach. Over the next week, I engage various court members in conversation about the memorial garden, hoping to piece together the truth from casual comments.
Most respond similarly to Ash—respectful but evasive, referring to the women as "honored daughters" who served the court's "sacred purposes." Lady Elvinia, the court's fertility advisor, actually looks distressed when I mention them.
"Best not to dwell on past sorrows," she murmurs. "The goddess path requires looking forward, not backward."
Captain Sage is even more direct: "Those matters are not for discussion, goddess. Focus on your own blessed transformation rather than questioning the past."
The pattern of evasion only deepens my suspicion. If these women died heroically serving the court, why won't anyone speak openly about their sacrifice? Why do mentions of them make everyone uncomfortable?
It's not until I overhear a hushed conversation between two young Fae servants that understanding begins to dawn:
"—same symptoms the goddess showed last week—"
"—shh! You know we're forbidden to speak of such things—"
"—but if she's following the pattern like the others—"
"—His Majesty believes her human blood will make the difference—"
"—that's what he hoped about Isabella too, remember?—"
They notice me and scatter before I can question them, but their words echo in my mind with growing horror. Symptoms. Pattern. The others.
Suddenly, the pieces begin falling into place with sickening clarity.
I return to the memorial garden that same afternoon, studying the headstones with new understanding. Divine transformation. The Great Work. The same process that changed me into what I am now—a process that has a perfect record of failure.
"You understand now."
I turn to find Ash standing behind me, their expression heavy with grief and resignation.
"How long have you been waiting for me to figure it out?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady.
"Since the day you first showed the signs," they admit quietly. "The breathlessness during exertion, the way your heart races even at rest, the environmental magical chaos. I tend this garden, goddess. I know the patterns."
"And Thorian? Does he know I know?"
"His Majesty suspects you have begun to question. You are not the first to grow curious about the memorial garden, though you are the first to investigate so... thoroughly."
The first to survive long enough to investigate, they mean. "How much time do I have?"
"Isabella lasted three months from the onset of symptoms. You have been showing signs for approximately three weeks."
Three weeks. If the pattern holds, I may have five or six weeks left before the power consumes me completely. Long enough to feel our child quickening in my womb, perhaps, but not long enough to hold them in my arms.
"Does he truly believe my human blood will make a difference?" I ask. "Or is he simply hoping against hope because he has no other choice?"
Ash considers the question carefully. "His Majesty loves you deeply, goddess. More deeply than he loved any of the others. That love... it clouds his judgment. He sees differences where there may be none, hope where there may be only desperate denial."
The truth settles over me like a shroud.
I am dying, slowly but surely, my enhanced body burning through its own systems like a candle flame consuming wax.
The man I love knows this, has seen it happen seven times before, and continues to tell me I'm special while watching me follow the exact same path.
"What happens now?" I whisper.
"Now you must decide," Ash says gently. "Will you confront His Majesty with your knowledge? Will you demand the truth he has been too afraid to speak? Or will you continue the fiction that protects his heart while yours breaks?"
I look at the seven graves one final time, at seven women who died believing they were loved and treasured rather than expendable. Then I turn away from the memorial garden, my decision crystallizing with each step.
I am not them. I will not die in ignorance or in service to someone else's desperate hope.
It's time to have a conversation with my king about truth, love, and the price of both.
But not tonight. Tonight I need to hold him close and memorize the feeling, because once I shatter the illusion we've been living in, nothing will ever be the same between us again.