"Some secrets stay buried for a reason.
Elara just started digging".
The garden felt like it was listening.
Holding its breath.
Elara knelt beneath the willow, her fingers tracing the stone sunk into the earth.
It had warmth to it, soft, unlikely.
Maybe it was just her.
Lately, her thoughts twisted too easily into things she couldn't explain.
She shut her eyes for a moment.
Just to breathe.
"Still talking to stones?"
Elara blinked hard.
Her head turned.
Isla stood near the archway, draped in dusk-colored silk, all polished elegance with frost beneath.
Her voice carried that familiar palace sweetness, syrup hiding the blade.
"You startled me."
"You're always here," Isla said, stepping forward. "The maids say you whisper to it like it might whisper back."
"Let them talk."
"Oh, they do," Isla said with a slow smirk.
"You'd be surprised how fast rumors take root around here. Quiet girl. Odd habits. That's all it takes."
Elara stood, brushing dust off her skirt.
"You didn't come to gossip."
"No," Isla said, head tilting slightly.
"I came because I'm watching my crown slip."
There it was.
"The Empress calls for you," Isla continued.
"Twice this week. No explanation. You go without question."
"I wasn't given a choice."
"Maybe not. But you've been handed something most of us bled for.
I was born marked. Trained to walk beside power.
And now? They watch you."
Elara met her gaze, steady.
"Maybe they're finally done watching puppets."
Something flickered in Isla's face.
A crack, quickly sealed.
"You think this place rewards honesty?" Isla asked.
"It doesn't. It crowns what's useful. And buries the rest."
She turned, then paused by the edge of the path.
"Careful with that tree, Elara," she said softly.
"Some roots twist deeper than blood.
And some memories, don't want to be woken."
She disappeared beyond the hedge.
The willow's leaves shifted with the wind.
Not gently, like a warning.
Lady Marellia entered Elara's chambers without a knock.
The way winter enters a room unexpected, but inevitable.
Her eyes scanned everything.
The comb untouched.
The necklace where it had been left.
The be, too neatly made.
"You don't wear the gifts," Marellia said. "Bold."
"I didn't agree to play this game."
Marellia's smile was small and sharp.
"You don't have to agree.
You're already a piece on the board."
"I didn't ask to be chosen."
"No one does," she said.
"But not playing is still a move.
And it's still counted."
Elara's jaw clenched.
"You think the palace chooses girls for kindness?" Marellia asked.
"They pick what's useful. Beautiful. Quiet. Or dangerous."
She stepped closer.
"Sometimes all four."
Elara didn't answer.
"I was the favorite once," Marellia added.
"Until I wasn't."
The words landed without softness.
Silence stretched.
"You think silence keeps you safe," Marellia said.
"It doesn't. Around here, silence speaks for you.
Whether you like the words or not."
She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the frame.
"Whatever you feel in that garden, whatever's stirring,
It comes with a price.
The palace always collects."
Then she left.
In the solar, dusk pooled in the corners like waiting hands.
Lady Marellia stood before the Empress, her face composed, voice quiet.
"She resists the ritual," Marellia said.
"Not out of pride.
Something in her remembers being hunted."
The Empress stirred her drink.
Slow. Precise.
"Good," she murmured.
"Let it rise."
"She's drawing attention. Isla's unraveling."
"All the better," the Empress said.
"Jealousy is the oldest fire. Let it burn."
Marellia's voice lowered.
"And if Elara endures?"
The Empress looked up.
Her gaze, frost and steel.
"Then the palace will kneel," she said.
"She carries more than she understands.
And the stone already knows her name."