The gardeners' archives occupy a modest stone structure tucked between the eastern and southern gardens. Inside, bookcases groan under the weight of ancient botanical manuscripts, journals, and maps. Dust motes dance amid beams of early light streaming through high windows.
"Everything you need to know about the royal gardens is here," Elm adds, indicating the vast collection. "Records date back to the kingdom's founding three centuries ago."
I brush my fingertips down leather-bound spines, sensing the collected knowledge of generations. "Where do I start?"
"With this." Elm pulls down a large atlas-sized book covered in faded green leather. The title, engraved in tarnished silver, reads, "The Protective Gardens of Thornwall: A Complete Compendium."
"Each garden section powers different protective wards," he adds as I carefully open the fragile pages. "The magic runs from the soil, up through the plants, and into the ward stones at each cardinal point. At least, that's how it's meant to work."
The visuals are breathtaking—meticulous schematics of garden plans, plant specimens, and amazing flow patterns. I trace the fine patterns with my fingers, experiencing a resonance with the paper itself. These aren't just sketches. The book was constructed with magical ingredients, the ink infused with essences from the plants it depicts.
"So the gardens aren't just decorative," I whisper, pieces clicking into place. "They're functional magic." "The kingdom's last defense," Elm says, his worn face grim. "When the gardens flourish, nothing can breach Thornwall's borders without permission."
I remember the odd winter cold that's been creeping across the region. "And now they're failing."
I close the book and gaze up at Elm. "Take me to see them. All of them. I need to touch the soil and speak with the plants directly."
Elm is surprised but nods. "As you wish."
Outside, the early chill has a stinging edge that feels unnatural for autumn. The head gardener walks me first to the northern gardens—home to the famed thornwall roses that give our country its name. Even wilted, they're magnificent—massive climbing roses with stems as thick as my forearm, each thorn glittering like polished steel.
I squat by a particularly huge specimen, ignoring the chill creeping through my skirts. Placing both palms firmly against the soil, I close my eyes and listen.
Pain.
The pleasure surges through me so fiercely that I gasp. The roses aren't just dying—they're being drained, their mystical essence sucked away.
"What's wrong?" Elm asks, worried by my attitude.
"Something's feeding on them," I say, opening my eyes. "This isn't natural decay or sickness. It's... predatory."
Moving clockwise, we visit each garden sector. The eastern gardens house night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers, all faded despite being placed in perfect shade conditions. The southern gardens include golden sunburst lilies now reduced to brown stalks. The western gardens include rare moon orchids acquired from other regions, their once-luminescent petals now gray and lifeless.
Each garden tells me the same story—something drains its enchantment quicker than they can refill it. But there's more. Beneath the evident sorrow, I sense something else—an imbalance, as though the gardens are being driven to channel magic they weren't built to handle.
By lunchtime, we approach the central nexus where all four garden areas converge around a crystal pool. The water should be clean and shimmering with mystical energy. Instead, it's cloudy and still, with a thin layer of ice forming at the edges despite the afternoon sun.
I kneel at the pool's edge and plunge my fingertips into the freezing water. Immediately, frost crystals form around my fingertips, spreading outward before I tear my hand away.
"That's not supposed to happen," Elm adds, eyes wide.
"Winter magic," I whisper, shaking frost from my fingertips. "The same magic Prince Thorne possesses."
I remember the frost spreading from the prince's footsteps yesterday. Could he be responsible for this imbalance? Is that why he's so frantic to mend the gardens—to disguise his own culpability?
Before I can explore this further, a shadow descends across us. I look up to find Prince Thorne himself standing at the edge of the central garden, his silver eyes fixated on me.
"You've seen enough for one day," he says, his voice as frigid as the frost that follows him. "I expect a preliminary assessment by tomorrow morning."
"Your Highness," I stand and address him directly, "these gardens aren't just dying. They're being drained by something. And there's winter magic interfering with their natural flow."
Something flickers in his eyes—alarm, guilt, I can't tell which.
"Be careful with accusations," he warns quietly. "The gardens are sensitive to many influences."
"Including yours?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
His jaw tightens. "You were brought here to restore the gardens, not to question your prince."
"I can't restore them without understanding what's happening," I counter, shocking myself with my audacity. "And what's happening involves winter magic."
For a long period, he stares at me, and I wonder whether I've pushed too far. Then his shoulders fall slightly—a barely discernible breach in his tight posture.
"Not here," he adds, staring at Elm. "Some matters are not for open discussion."
He turns on his heel and rushes away, leaving a trail of frost crystals that shimmer briefly in the sunlight before dissolving.
Elm releases a breath I hadn't realized he was holding. "No one speaks to the prince that way," he whispers. "Not since..."
"Since what?"
"Since the king fell ill and the winter came early." He looks uneasily over his shoulder. "Be careful, girl. The prince isn't known for his kindness."
I observe Thorne's receding figure, observing how staff and guards scatter from his path.
"There's more happening here than dying plants," I remark, more to myself than to Elm. "And I intend to discover what it is."
As the sun begins to drop, I retire to my hut at the garden's edge to order my thoughts. I need a plan to repair these gardens, but first, I need to understand what's genuinely happening to them.
What I do know: the gardens have protective wards; winter magic interferes with their function; and Prince Thorne possesses winter magic he seems reluctant to reveal.
What I don't know is whether he is causing the situation purposely or accidentally? Is someone else involved? And why did frost form at my touch in the central pool?
I light my tiny hearth fire and begin sketching the garden plan in a journal provided for my use. As darkness falls completely, something catches my notice through the window—movement near the kingdom's limits where the wards should be strongest.
I extinguish my lamp and stare into the darkness.
What I see chills me more than any ice could.