Chapter 7 — The Language of Warmth
The mark on Lyra's hand faded by morning, but its memory lingered like a whisper.
She didn't speak of it. Not to the maids, not to the courtiers, not even to herself. Instead, she tucked her hand beneath her sleeve and carried on — as if nothing had changed, though everything had.
The palace felt different. Softer, somehow.
At midday, she was summoned to the greenhouse.
She hadn't known there was one.
A servant led her through winding halls and down a spiral staircase carved from obsidian. At the bottom, a door opened into light — golden, humid, and fragrant. The greenhouse was vast, filled with plants she'd never seen: glowing orchids, vines that shimmered with dew, trees that hummed faintly when the wind passed through.
And there, standing beside a table of blooming firelilies, was the Dragon King.
He didn't wear his crown. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands were stained with soil.
Lyra blinked. "You garden?"
He looked up, eyes catching hers. "I tend."
She stepped closer, careful not to disturb the petals. "Why?"
He paused, then said, "Because fire needs balance. And I… need quiet."
Lyra smiled gently. "You could have invited me sooner."
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I wasn't sure you'd ask."
He studied her for a moment, then gestured to a small pot beside him. "This one hasn't bloomed in years. It only responds to warmth."
Lyra knelt beside it. The plant was pale, its leaves curled inward like a secret. She reached out, hesitated, then placed her marked hand near its stem.
Nothing happened.
But the King watched her, not the plant.
"You're not afraid anymore," he said quietly.
She looked up. "I don't think I ever was. Just… unsure."
He nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial — glass, etched with runes. "This is dragon dew," he said. "Rare. It helps things grow."
He poured a single drop onto the soil.
The plant shivered.
Then, slowly, it opened — one petal at a time — revealing a bloom the color of sunrise.
Lyra gasped. "It's beautiful."
He didn't look at the flower. He looked at her.
"So are you," he said.
The words hung in the air, fragile and real.
Lyra's heart stuttered. She didn't speak. She simply reached out and touched the bloom, letting its warmth settle into her skin.
They stayed there for a long time, surrounded by quiet life and soft light.
And when she finally stood to leave, he said:
> "If you ever feel cold… come here."
She turned at the door. "Will you be here?"
He didn't smile. But his voice was gentle.
> "Always."