Velmira smelled of roses and smoke.
The scent drifted through the palace halls, thick and heavy as though even the stone remembered the blood once spilled here. Princess Seraphina of Velmira stood alone atop the highest balcony of Rosehall, the grand palace that had housed generations of her bloodline. Below her stretched the Vale Hills, golden with harvest and deceptive in their serenity. From this distance, all was calm. But beyond the hills, fires burned. War drums echoed in the east.
The wind tugged at her veil, drawing it back like the curtain of a stage. The day was too quiet. The kind of quiet that came before a storm or a betrayal. She rested her palms against the cold marble railing, etched with the sigil of her house—a single rose wrapped in thorns.
How fitting.
Seraphina had grown up surrounded by tales of honor and chivalry, of noble kings and brave queens. But the truth behind those stories was buried in unmarked graves. Her grandfather had died in the War of Three Crowns, her father poisoned at a peace banquet. Her mother, Queen Alira, now ruled alone, a monarch cloaked in dignity and shadows.
"Your Highness," came a soft voice from behind.
Seraphina turned to see Elira, her lady-in-waiting, holding a silver tray with a sealed letter. Her freckled cheeks were flushed, eyes nervous.
"It came by raven. Marked with the sigil of Elandor."
Seraphina took the letter without a word. The seal was black wax, stamped with the lion of Elandor—the kingdom that had once been an ally, now a threat. She broke the seal slowly, dreading the words within.
The message was short. Cold. Final.
To the Queen of Velmira and her heir,
Our patience wanes. You have broken the treaty signed beneath the Winter Stone. Our armies wait not for words but for surrender. You have seven days.
—Prince Kaelen of Elandor
Seraphina closed the letter with trembling hands. Kaelen. The man she had once met as a child in the rose gardens. The boy who had offered her a thornless stem and told her he'd protect her kingdom someday.
Seven days.
Elira spoke quietly. "Do you think they'll attack?"
"I think," Seraphina said, eyes distant, "they already have."
She walked back inside, the folds of her gown whispering against the polished floors. The throne room was silent when she entered. Light from stained glass windows painted red and gold shapes upon the stone.
Queen Alira sat tall upon the ivory throne, her silver hair bound back in braids, her expression unreadable.
"You received it," the Queen said, not looking up.
"Yes."
"And what will you do, daughter of mine?"
Seraphina hesitated. "We must answer with strength. With diplomacy, if possible, but readiness above all."
The Queen's smile was bitter. "A poet's answer. And yet we have neither strength nor time. The nobility is divided. The southern lords whisper rebellion. The northern passes are frozen. We are not ready."
Silence stretched between them.
"You knew this day would come," Seraphina said. "And you kept me in the shadows."
"I kept you alive," Alira replied. "You think I enjoyed preparing your gowns while sharpening my sword in secret? No, child. But Velmira does not need a dreamer on the throne. It needs a survivor."
Seraphina's eyes flashed. "Then teach me. Let me fight for our people."
"You will fight, but not with sword or fire."
Alira stood and descended the steps. Her voice was low, like thunder cloaked in velvet.
"You will marry him."
Seraphina's heart froze.
"What?"
"Prince Kaelen. You will marry the lion of Elandor and end this war before it begins."
"No." The word escaped her lips before thought could catch it. "He threatens us. He writes ultimatums like a butcher. You would hand me to him like a sacrifice?"
"I would hand you the future," Alira said coldly. "You wish to save Velmira? This is the price."
Seraphina stepped back. "There must be another way."
"There is not."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Outside, the wind howled through the garden arches.
Then, with shaking hands, Seraphina turned and fled the throne room.
---
She sought the quiet of the catacombs.
They lay beneath Rosehall like a shadow, older than the palace itself. Seraphina lit a single torch, its flame wavering as she descended the spiraling stairs. The tombs of her ancestors stood in silence, watching.
She passed her father's resting place, the stone sarcophagus engraved with his name—King Elandar the Gentle. He had ruled with peace in his heart. And he had died for it.
She knelt beside his tomb.
"Father," she whispered, "I do not know what to do. I am not a warrior. I am not a queen. I am the last rose. And I am afraid."
The torch sputtered. The silence wrapped around her like a shroud.
And then she heard it.
Footsteps.
She rose swiftly, heart racing, and turned toward the noise. A shadow emerged from the corridor, tall and cloaked.
"Who's there?" she called.
The figure stepped into the light, lowering his hood.
Her breath caught.
It was him.
Kaelen.
Older now, his features sharpened by battle and time, but unmistakably the same boy who had once smiled in her mother's garden. He wore no armor, no crown. Only a simple black cloak.
"You came here," she said, stunned.
"I had to," he replied. "There are things a letter cannot say."
She raised her chin. "You threaten us with war, and now you walk our halls in secret?"
"I came alone. Against my council's wishes. Against my better judgment."
She stared at him, at the storm in his eyes. "Why?"
He hesitated. "Because I remember the girl who planted roses in the ash. And because I would rather be your enemy than your executioner."
The torchlight flickered. Something in her heart ached.
"Then call off your soldiers," she said. "Spare our people."
"I cannot."
"Then you are already my enemy."
He stepped closer, voice low. "Not if you stand beside me."
Silence again. Except for the beating of her heart.
Seraphina turned away, staring at the flickering torch.
"Seven days," she said. "To choose between surrender and war."
"To choose between dying alone or surviving together," he corrected.
And then he was gone, vanishing into the dark.
---
Later that night, Seraphina sat alone in the rose garden. The same one where Kaelen had once offered her a flower without thorns.
Now, the bushes bled red.
She plucked a single bloom and pricked her finger on a hidden thorn.
Blood welled to the surface.
So this is love in times of war, she thought. It always bleeds.
And the moon watched in silence.