The sun rose slowly over Valemire Palace, gilding the towers in gold and crimson. The gardens bloomed in carefully curated chaos , vines trained to look wild, roses bred to bleed red and white, and fountains that sang lullabies when no one was listening.
At the center of this illusion stood Queen Dowager Lilian, her face serene, eyes unreadable, as she snipped the stem of a rare violet-black blossom. Her attendants stood at a distance, unused to such silence from her. It was the silence of control. Of strategy.
A shadow passed over the path.
"Still tending poison with such grace," Lucien said, his voice cold as the morning dew.
Lilian did not look up. "The right poison, dear, can be medicine in a clever hand."
Lucien stepped closer, bootheels tapping over marble. "You always preferred trimming flowers to mending kingdoms."
"I preferred peace," she said. "But peace is tedious. So I settled for pruning threats."
