I awoke to the sound of rain against my window. The cottage is dark, yet something has disturbed my sleep. A shadow creeps near the door—I sit up with a cry, reaching for the knife I've become accustomed to putting beneath my pillow.
"It's just me," Prince Thorne adds gently. "I need to show you something."
The prince, at my cottage, in the middle of the night? I light a candle with shaky fingers, revealing Thorne standing just inside my door, rain streaming down his cloak. His usual immaculate appearance is unkempt, hair damp and eyes haunted.
"Your Highness, what—"
"Please," he interrupts, his voice strained. "Just come. Bring your cloak."
I've never heard that tone from him before—urgent, even imploring. I dress swiftly behind my screen, pulling my cloak over my nightdress and following him into the rain-soaked gardens.
He walks me along trails I haven't explored yet, toward the east side of the gardens where the moon orchids bloom. We pass beneath an antique arbor, and suddenly we're in a secret garden I never knew existed—a perfect circle of white stone chairs encircling a pool of quiet water that reflects the clearing sky.
"The Heart Garden," Thorne explains, his voice low. "Created by the first King and Queen of Thornwall. Few realize it still exists."
The rain has ceased, stars emerging between clouds. The pool reflects them like a mirror of the heavens. It's gorgeous, but I don't understand why he's brought me here in the middle of the night.
"After the council meeting today..." he begins but stops, fumbling with words—so unlike his normal exact delivery. "I needed someone to know the truth. Someone who isn't entangled in court politics."
"The truth about what?" I ask.
He beckons for me to sit on one of the stone benches. Instead of joining me, he paces the edge of the pool, his reflection fragmenting with each movement.
"About the burden I carry," he says finally. "The pretense of being heartless, of being cold, when every day I'm terrified I'm watching my kingdom die and can do nothing to stop it."
His admission stuns me into stillness. For a week, I've seen only the haughty prince who inspects my work with critical eyes and who speaks to courtiers with short directives and disdainful gestures.
"The council is pressuring me to act against the northern villages," he continues, peering into the water. "Crop failures there have led to discontent. They want me to send soldiers and make examples of the leaders. As if fear could make the barley flourish in frost-bitten fields."
"But you haven't," I answer gently.
He looks up, moonlight catching on his silver eyes. "No. I sent grain instead. Secretly. It's why the treasury is stressed, why Lady Revira says I'm mismanaging resources."
I begin to understand the layers of this man—the tough façade protecting terrible choices.
"Why tell me this?" I ask.
Thorne pauses pacing, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Because today, for the first time in two years, I felt hope. The northern beds you restored—they're actually holding. The barrier there is strengthening."
He turns to face me straight. "And I needed someone to know that I'm not what they whisper. That I'm not heartless. That I am attempting to save them all."
A gust of wind blows through the garden, rustling leaves. Frost flows from beneath Thorne's boots—his magic responding to his emotions.
"The blight," I remark, referring to the approaching frost. "It's connected to you, isn't it?"
His jaw tightens. "Yes. My power—the winter magic of my bloodline—it's growing unstable. The more I use it, the worse the blight becomes."
"That's why you avoid using it," I realize. "Why do you let them believe you're simply cold-hearted rather than magically conflicted?"
"It's easier for them to hate a cruel prince than fear a failing kingdom," he says with bitter resignation.
I stand, heading toward him despite my better judgment. "There must be a balance somewhere. A means to stabilize your magic."
"Balthren thinks so too. Something about complementary magical energy." He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "But we're running out of time. The wards get weaker each day. The Shadowmeres press harder toward our borders each night."
I think of the shadow creatures I observed testing the eastern walls two nights ago—writhing masses of darkness with flashing eyes.
"How long has the king been ill?" I ask.
Pain flashes across Thorne's face. "Two years. Since the first traces of the blight appeared."
The timing can't be accidental. "And no one relates his illness to the deteriorating gardens?"
"Only Balthren, myself, and now you." He glances at me with surprising intensity. "Which is why you must be careful. There are people who would use this information against the crown."
"Lady Revira," I assume.
His mouth twists. "Among others. My relative has always believed she should govern. She cultivates companions like deadly flowers."
Thunder rumbles in the background, a fresh storm approaching. Thorne glances skyward. "I should return you to your cottage."
As we go back, I notice he keeps a distance between us, yet his steps are lighter. Sharing his burden seems to have alleviated something in him.
At my door, he pauses. "Tomorrow I'd like to show you something different. The reason I'm so desperate to repair the gardens."
"The king?" I inquire, startling myself with my boldness.
Thorne's eyes expand slightly. "You're insightful. Yes. I'll come for you at midday."
He turns to leave, then stops. "Thank you," he adds without turning back, "for listening. For believing in the gardens enough to try."
After he goes into the night, I touch the damp wood of my door, wondering about the prince's disclosure. The cold, heartless monarch the court murmurs about is actually a man shouldering impossible duties alone, making terrible choices to protect his people.
I fell asleep wondering what other secrets the palace has and why Prince Thorne chose to share his with me.