Chapter 20 A Day With the King
A Day With the King
Islip back through the tapestry, retrace my steps through the dark halls, and climb beneath the covers, but sleep never comes.
My conversation with the dragon echoes through my mind like a curse I can’t unhear.
His voice. His insatiable hunger. The knowledge that the king sent him to find me—to save me—tightens around my ribs like a snare.
I watch the sky outside my window turn pale as I slip into the covers.
And when I finally rise in the gray of the early morning, I refuse to change into the gown still lying out at the foot of my bed.
Instead, I reach for my plainest outfit, a cream-colored linen shirt, soft green sash, and worn leather pants.
I tie my hair back in a simple braid, not bothering to fix the flyaway strands.
If he expects a show, he’ll be disappointed.
When I open the door, Marb is waiting. Her wings flick nervously, eyes wide and unreadable.
“Oh my stars!” she gasps, hands fluttering to her mouth. “You’re not wearing the dress!”
“I don’t want to wear his stupid dress.”
“It’s incredibly rude to refuse a gift from His Majesty,” she hisses. “You must change at once! You’re already late as it is!”
“No. He can receive me as I am—or not at all.”
Marb lets out a strangled little sigh and mutters something under her breath in Fae. “Fine… Fine. Let’s just go. We can’t keep the king waiting.” She doesn’t speak again as she leads me down the corridor, through a narrow spiral stairway, and out into the lush quiet of the eastern gardens.
And there he is, veiled in morning mist, leaning against the same twisted tree where we first met. His back is to me, but the moment I step past the gate, he straightens and turns as if sensing my presence.
His gaze drifts from my face to my boots and back again. I brace for disappointment. For mockery. For the pointed, biting remark I know he’s capable of.
But instead, he smiles. His expression betrays no surprise—nor, shockingly, disapproval. It’s as if he expected this.
The garden is overgrown and elegant, half-wild in the way dreams often are.
The stone path beneath my feet is slick with dew, and the air smells like roses and wet earth.
Underneath it all lingers the faintest undertone of smoke.
I cast a furtive glance at the sky, half-expecting the dragon to defy his master and swoop down to carry me to my death.
“We met in this very garden,” he says softly, as if plucking the memory from my mind. “I thought it fitting that our first day together begin here, too.”
“The garden where you lied to me?” I lift a brow. “Where you pretended to be a gardener to earn my trust?”
His mouth twitches. “I am a gardener. I cultivated and tend to all that you see.”
I turn my gaze away from him. “You cultivate lies.”
“I’ve never lied to you,” he responds calmly.
“You let me believe you were someone else. And lying through omission is still a lie.”
“Fair enough.” His lips curl into a small smile. “Walk with me. I want to show you something.”
I hesitate. He doesn’t reach for me, but his eyes have a certain gentleness that promises it isn’t another of his tricks. Giving in, I fall into stride beside him.
We stroll past flowerbeds and fountains, over moss-covered stone and under arched wisteria. The king treads the ground beside me, silent but solid, like a second heartbeat.
“Your gardens make it easy to forget this place is cursed,” I say sharply, meaning it like the jab it is.
“Then they’re doing their job,” he answers quietly.
“Keeping everyone distracted?” I retort.
“Keeping them alive.” His tone is mild, but the edge beneath it cuts, nonetheless.
For now, I think, but even I don’t dare to voice that thought.
Then he asks about home, and my heart throbs with longing.
“I don’t miss the city,” I say flatly, betraying nothing.
“Then what do you miss?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The truth would sound too small, too human. So instead, I keep walking, pretending to study the hedgerows while my pulse thrums in my throat.
He says nothing more, and for a while, only the hush of wind and water fills the space between us.
Suddenly, he stops, and I follow his gaze to a marble gazebo with a hollow in the roof. In the center, a massive planter holds a flower I haven’t seen since I was a child. Not just any flower.
A moonbeam.
“This is the crown jewel of my garden,” the king says. “They only bloom beneath the moonlight. This one hasn’t opened yet… but I think it will tonight.” Then, after a beat, “I thought we might watch it open together.”
The petals are pale and curled tight, almost translucent at the edges.
As I step closer, I can see the faint shimmer of silver threaded through each vein, like stars stitched into lace.
It doesn’t quite look real. Rather, it looks like a piece of night sky plucked from the heavens and folded into a flower.
I stare at it, my throat tightening as I remember how I used to gather them once a year with my mother, before she died. “These only grow amid the southern cliffs of Solmere.” My fingers hover over the unopened petals. “How did you…?”
A faint smile curves his mouth. “I have my ways.”
“My mother loved moonbeams,” I whisper.
The king’s head drops slightly, eyes softening as he studies me for a moment. “I’m sorry about your mother and your brother.” He says it so simply, so unexpectedly, that it takes me a moment to believe he means it.
Who is this man? I glance down at the moonbeam again, its petals still closed, waiting for the perfect moment to bloom.
“I thought they were extinct,” I say, returning my attention to the flower. “I ventured to the cliffs to pick some to leave at her grave the year after she passed, but it was as if they’d all disappeared.” My gaze lifts to meet his. “Thank you, Your Highness. For showing me this.”
“Keiren,” he says softly.
“What?”
“Please… Call me Keiren.”
The air shifts between us—quieter now, more fragile.
After a moment, he gestures to a wrought iron table tucked beneath the trees. Steam is curling from a pot of tea delicately laid out between two teacups. He pulls out a chair for me, and I take a sip of my tea—jasmine and chamomile—while he stirs honey into his own.
“I made this blend from the flowers of this very garden,” he says proudly.
“It’s better than the ones I used to make from my mother’s garden,” I murmur, taking another sip.
He doesn’t interrupt, so I continue, “After she died, I couldn’t keep a single thing alive.
I tried everything. New seeds. Imported soil.
Even gardeners from abroad.” A quiet breath escapes me. “For five years, I tried.”
He studies me as if listening to what I don’t say.
Then he rises and steps toward the garden’s edge. For a moment, I think he’s leaving.
Instead, he reaches out and snaps a single bloom from a thorned branch. When he returns, he doesn’t hand it to me. He sets it on the tray beside the cakes and jars of jam, then nudges the whole thing closer.
The gesture is simple. Careful.
“Some things aren’t meant to endure untouched,” he says quietly. “They’re meant to be tended to while they can be. Remembered when they’re gone.” His gaze lingers on the flower. “You didn’t fail her garden. You stayed with it longer than most people would have.”
Something in my chest tightens.
The silence between us no longer feels like tension, just stillness. Not quite peace—but something close.
And yet, a thought creeps in all the same. Maybe this, too, is a tactic. Another way to soften me. I push it down, but it still simmers beneath my skin.
“So,” I ask quietly, “what now?”
The king—Keiren—only gazes at me with a hint of confusion.
“Is this the plan?” I press. “Invite me to your garden, wait for nightfall, we watch the moonflowers bloom, then invite me to your chambers, demand the kiss you’re owed, and—”
His eyes lift to mine. There’s no arrogance in his gaze, no hunger.
“No,” he says candidly. “I do not make it a practice to force myself on unwilling women.”
“That’s rich,” I snap, “coming from the man who sends a dragon to the corners of the earth to collect them.”
His jaw tightens. “I do not send the dragon. I have no control over who he chooses.” He flicks his gaze downward, staring into his teacup so intently I wouldn’t be surprised if it started boiling.
“Then what do you want from me?” I ask incredulously.
“Today,” he says softly. “I hope you stay. That we watch the moonbeams open together.”
I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t fill the silence. He just waits.
My throat tightens. “And if I don’t? If I want to leave right now?”
His smile flickers, rueful. “Then I’ll let you go.”
The truth settles heavy in my chest: If he demanded anything, I could hate him for it. I could harden myself and survive.
But he isn’t demanding.
And that makes staying far more dangerous.
I glance at the moonbeam in its planter, its buds tight and waiting, then back at Keiren. Something in my chest fractures as I realize I want nothing more than to stay and watch it open with him.
“Fire, I—” He reaches as if to touch my hand but stops himself.
“I should go,” I say too quickly. “Thank you for the tea.”
I stand, give him a shallow bow, and turn to leave.
I don’t look back.