Chapter 9 The Gardens
The Gardens
Ileave the dining hall with the uneasy awareness that I have been studied more closely than I intended.
By nightfall, exhaustion sinks deep into my bones. I am halfway through unpinning my hair when the knock comes, careful, as though the person on the other side already expects trouble. I quickly pull the veil back into place out of habit.
“Yes?” I call.
The door opens just enough for the maid to peer inside. Maridale’s eyes flick to the window, then back to me.
“Lady Asharin,” she says quietly. “Your brother has arrived.”
My fingers still. “At this hour?”
She nods. “He asked for you by name. Said it was… urgent.”
Nothing urgent has ever come from Mysin that did not leave bruises behind.
“I’ll come,” I say.
Maridale hesitates. “Shall I send someone with you?”
“No.” I force my hands to move again, pinning my hair into something serviceable. “He won’t like that.”
I pull my veil into place before I leave the room, habit drilled into muscle and bone. Even here. Even now. The corridor feels too long, too bright. My footsteps echo in a way that makes me feel exposed.
Mysin waits near the garden doors, hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable.
If someone passed us in the hall, they might think this was a brother calling on a sister out of affection.
The gardens are empty at this hour, the lanterns dimmed low, the hedges casting long shadows across the garden paths.
Night presses close, heavy with the scent of damp earth and clipped roses.
Mysin walks beside me at first, polite as a courtier, his hands folded behind his back. “You look well,” he says. “Betrothal suits you already.”
I do not answer.
We reach the narrow path near the outer wall, the one that curves toward the servants’ gate. A carriage waits at the far end, its lantern unlit.
He stops. “There it is,” he says pleasantly. “We’re going to the whorehouse.”
I turn to him. “No.”
He sighs, as though disappointed by a stubborn child. “You must learn how to please the Prince. My future depends on it. Your success reflects on us all.”
“I am not going,” I say. “I am to be a Princess.”
He laughs. The sound is cruel. Ugly. “You?” His eyes rake over me. “You are not too good for a whorehouse, daughter of a whore.”
I step back. He strikes me without warning. Stars bloom behind my eyes. I stagger, catching myself against the stone edge of the path.
“Get up,” he says. “You will walk to that carriage.”
Heat gathers at my fingertips, familiar and dangerous, a pressure I have spent my life forcing down. I breathe through it, grounding myself in pain, in control.
I straighten. “I will not go.”
His face hardens. He lunges, fingers closing around my throat for a moment before yanking the chain from my neck. The clasp snaps. The pendant falls into his palm.
“No necklace, then,” he says, holding it up. “You don’t deserve it. Pathetic bitch.”
He shoves me backward. I hit the ground hard, breath torn loose. His boot connects with my side. Once, then again.
This pendant is all that I have left of my mother. I move to stop him, power rising before I can think better of it, but he is faster and the moment slips away. If anyone sees what I can do, the questions will begin, a risk I should not take when I am so close to being free of the Baron for good.
I fold inward, refusing to scream. Another kick lands, glancing off my ribs. I taste blood.
Then—
“Enough.”
The word cuts through the garden.
Mysin freezes. I lift my head. Prince Colsar stands at the edge of the path, his face cold and unreadable. Instinct takes over and I quickly adjust my veil, fingers shaking as I secure it.
He does not react to the gesture.
Mysin recovers first. “Your Highness—”
Colsar lifts one hand. Mysin’s words die in his throat. He clutches at his chest, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing as no sound comes out. He drops to his knees, then to his hands, coughing violently, gasping like a fish dragged onto land.
The Prince walks forward, boots silent on the ground.
I push myself upright, swaying but standing.
Colsar stops beside me, his eyes passing over my torn dress, the dirt on my skin, the blood on my arm.
Then his attention returns to Mysin, who is now choking in earnest, hands clawing at his own throat.
“You forget yourself,” Colsar says calmly. “You should not touch what does not belong to you.” His fingers tighten. Mysin collapses fully, retching, coughing, struggling for air.
The Prince turns to me then. “You’re not going to beg for his life?” he asks.
I look down at my brother, writhing on the garden path.
I spit on the ground beside him. A look of surprise briefly crosses Colsar’s face, as though that is not the response he expected.
He releases his grip, and Mysin drags in air, coughing so hard his body shakes and tears streak down his face. He does not look at me again.
Colsar raises his voice, crisp and commanding. “Someone call for a healer,” he says. “I don’t want her looking any uglier on our wedding day.”
Servants rush forward, hands hovering, voices hushed and urgent. Someone takes my arm, guiding me away.
“Bring me a chair,” Colsar barks.
As I’m led back toward the palace lights, I glance once over my shoulder. Mysin is still on the ground, and Colsar now sits above him in a velvet chair, staring down at him as though he has only just begun.
I am sitting on the edge of the bed when the healer enters, her expression already guarded. She closes the door behind her and gestures once toward the servants lingering in the corridor.
“Privacy,” she says.
The room empties, and only then do I reach for my veil. When the fabric slips away, the healer inhales sharply. I know the reaction is not to my bruises, the split skin along my ribs, or the darkening marks. It is my eyes.
I flinch, instinctively reaching for my veil again, but she lifts a hand. “Forgive me,” she says quickly. “It is not often one sees gold so clear.”
“They are nothing,” I say.
“They are not nothing,” she replies, steady and composed now. “Those with eyes like yours are said to carry strong lineage. Sometimes strong power.”
I nod. “I know.”
“And power without position,” she adds gently, “is dangerous.”
Something like approval passes over her face. “You are wise to hide them.” She tends to my wounds with practiced care. Salves cool the fire in my skin. The smaller bruises fade beneath her touch. “Your face will be unmarred long before the wedding,” she says at last. “The rest will heal.”
“Thank you.”
She pauses at the door. “I did not see your eyes,” she says solemnly, then leaves.
I sigh, relieved, then blow out the candles, climb into bed, and wait for sleep to come.
I wake in the night, the ache everywhere, but it is not pain that rouses me. It is the absence at my throat, where my fingers now find only skin.
Mysin still has my necklace.
I try to summon my brother’s face, but it slips away. What remains is Colsar’s voice, calm and certain.
You should not touch what does not belong to you.
The words linger beneath my skin, heavier than the violence, heavier than the silence that followed.
I have belonged to people before, but this was different.
I press my palms into the mattress, grounding myself in its unfamiliar softness.
Tomorrow, I will wear silks and stand where I am placed, but tonight I lie awake with the quiet knowledge that something has shifted, and that for the first time, power bent toward me instead of over me.
I close my eyes again, falling asleep with one truth certain: Rathmor Palace may not be the thing that breaks me after all.