Chapter 25 New Dawn #2
Cassy’s smile softens. She leans closer and whispers, “You don’t have to say anything. But I hope it was everything you dreamed it would be.”
I glance down at my soup. “It was… something.”
“Well,” Mariel says, rising and clearly sensing the shift, “before you returned, the king announced a second ball.”
“What?” I say, giving her my full attention.
“He returned, informed the court, and then left again before anyone could protest. He said it would be smaller this time. More… selective.”
“The Second Trial,” Vivian says, sobering. “It will be announced soon.”
I nod. “I can feel it.”
“But first, Fire,” Mariel adds, already heading for the door, “you need a bath.”
“Desperately,” Cassy agrees. “You reek of horse.”
“Come on,” Vivian says with mock ceremony. “Let us be your handmaidens, bearing gifts of soap and perfume.”
I roll my eyes but follow them back to my bedchamber.
A week passes, and Keiren is still nowhere to be found.
The silence gnaws at me more than the memory of his kiss ever could.
One moment, he was fire against my mouth, pulling me close as though the world might end without it—and the next, he vanished like smoke.
No summons. No sightings. Nothing but empty corridors and unanswered questions.
Elena and Seraphina make their dismay known, their complaints dripping like poisoned honey. The daily rotation has stopped entirely—no dinners, no audiences, no carefully staged moments meant to remind us we are seen.
Cassian told me days ago, in a low voice meant to reassure, that the king is occupied with matters of state.
That the Bound Four have been traveling constantly between the regions, summoned back and forth without pause.
He said it was as if something had shifted after the forest—as though Keiren had returned changed, quieter, burdened in a way Cassian had never seen before.
Even Vivian ventures her guesses in a trembling voice, wondering aloud if he’s forgotten us.
I keep silent.
Inside me, confusion coils with anger until it feels like a blade beneath my ribs. Did he play me for a fool? Am I only something to be taken and set aside once his curiosity is satisfied?
And yet—though the thought stings—I understand. If he is truly ruling now, truly stepping into the weight of his crown, then perhaps this silence is the cost. Perhaps he is out there doing what kings are meant to do. The idea doesn’t ease the ache, but it steadies it.
I refuse to waste myself on wanting him. Instead, I turn my thoughts to survival—to uncovering whatever truth I can about the Trial we all know is coming.
Every morning, a flower waits at my door. Sometimes two. Never with a note—just a single bloom laid at the threshold, dewy and perfect, as though the keep itself has chosen me for its offerings.
Some I recognize. Red camellia—a confession of desire, a symbol of secret longing. Snapdragon—a warning of deception. Others are strangers to me, curling in shapes I can’t name, carrying foreign perfumes that haunt me throughout the day.
He does not write. He does not come.
But the flowers never stop.
On the third morning, I gather the blooms and march to the library, daring its shelves to mock me.
A book falls at my feet the moment I demand answers, its title pressed in fading gold: The Language of Flowers. The pages list meanings in delicate script, bordered by blossoms painted with aching precision. I devour the entries, tracing the clues as if each petal hides a message meant only for me.
I should feel clever. I should feel triumphant. Instead, I feel watched. Desired. Each bloom feels like a whisper at my door, a hand that aches to reach for me but cannot.
I carry the book to the desk by the window and sink into the chair, setting it carefully before me as though it might bite.
My gaze drifts to the flowers I’ve kept pressed between the pages of my journal. I pull it closer, untie the ribbon, and begin where instinct tells me to start—not with what they mean, but when they came.
I write them down in the order I received them, my pen scratching softly across the page.
Belladonna. Foxglove. Snapdragon. Edelweiss.
My breath slows.
As I turn deeper into the book, something catches my eye—ink darker than the rest, set apart from the surrounding text. Not a definition. Not a footnote.
An inscription.
The handwriting is feminine, slanted and careful. Faded, as though time itself tried—and failed—to erase it.
Beneath a subheading pressed in small, deliberate script:
Remedy or Deadly?
Certain flowers exist in both pharmacopeia and poison lists. Their purpose is determined not by their nature but by the hand that prepares them. Destined to heal or cursed to destroy.
My breath stills. I flip back to the entries, my pulse beginning to race.
Belladonna (Atropa belladonna)
Meaning: Beautiful woman. Silence. Hidden danger.
Note: Highly poisonous. Medicinal in precise doses.
Foxglove (Digitalis)
Meaning: Insincerity. Deception.
Note: Deadly if misused. Heals the heart when properly prepared.
Snapdragon. Deception. False appearances.
Edelweiss. Courage. Devotion under trial.
Beside them all is one word, pressed harder than the rest.
TRIAL.
Underlined.
Once.
The flowers weren’t chosen at random. They weren’t gifts; they were instructions. A warning passed from one woman to another.
The next trial is the ball.
At dinner a week after his disappearance, it is not Keiren who enters the dining hall, but Arther. His stride is sharp, his expression unreadable. The hall stills as if the stones themselves recognize his authority.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look at anyone.
“The king’s ball will be held tomorrow night,” he announces. “In the Hall of Mirrors.”
No explanation. No questions entertained.
When I return to my chambers the following night, a gown awaits me, draped across my bed in a river of midnight silk that shimmers like spilled ink.
The fabric is cool beneath my fingers, heavier than it looks, stitched with a care that speaks of time and intention.
Beside it rests a silver mask, its surface carved into delicate scales that catch the light and fracture it.