Third Person's POV
Three days later, the Sealed Garden had become their sanctuary. Morning meetings and duties filled the daylight, but by evening, Talia and Rhenessa always found their way back here — beneath ivy-draped walls and moonlight-soaked flowers, away from the watching eyes of the court.
That night, laughter echoed softly between them as they wandered deeper than they had before. Talia held the lantern, its light catching the wild blooms at their feet. "I thought I knew every corner of this place," she murmured.
"Even gardens keep secrets," Rhenessa said, her voice low and smooth, violet eyes glinting.
They reached a section of the wall half-hidden by tangled roses. Behind the thorns, an old chest rested, wood weathered but intact. Rhenessa brushed away vines, and together they eased it open, its hinges groaning.
Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, lay a small leather-bound book. Dust clung to it, the edges brittle with age. Talia lifted it carefully, lanternlight spilling across the cover. Her breath caught when she saw the name etched faintly into the leather:
Queen Seraphina do Sol.
"My grandmother…" Talia whispered, her voice trembling. "This was hers."
The weight of it pressed against her palms — not just a diary, but a piece of her bloodline, a voice from the past that had ruled before her. She traced the name with her thumb, eyes shimmering with wonder and unease.
"Shall we open it?" Rhenessa asked softly, though her tone held both curiosity and caution.
Talia hesitated, clutching the book to her chest. "No. Not yet. If this garden has kept her secrets all these years, then I will not break them lightly." She lifted her gaze to Rhenessa's. "When the time is right… we'll read it together."
Rhenessa nodded, respect and something more flickering in her expression. "Then we will."
They sat in silence for a while, the unopened diary between them. The night air was thick with jasmine, the moment suspended in unspoken promises. Talia leaned back against the stone wall, her golden eyes lingering on Rhenessa as if drawing strength from her presence.
And though they did not open the book, both women felt it — the sense that the garden, and the past, were watching.
The diary rested carefully in Talia's lap, its weight a reminder of her bloodline, but her gaze was on Rhenessa. The Empress leaned back against the ivy wall, violet eyes catching lanternlight like twilight stars.
"I don't often admit this," Talia said softly, fingers tracing idle patterns across the leather cover, "but there are times I wonder if I've failed my people. Failed myself. When I lost my child, I… lost myself too. And in my silence, I let Caelen and the council dictate my throne."
Her voice wavered, but she did not look away. "And then you came. And suddenly… I remembered what it feels like to be more than a shadow."
Rhenessa's expression softened, her usual steel melting into something achingly tender. "You've never been a shadow, Talia. You are the Sun itself. Even when you thought you'd dimmed, you burned too brightly for me not to see you."
The words struck her, leaving a warmth blooming in her chest. She laughed quietly, shaking her head. "You speak as if you see more in me than even I do."
"I do," Rhenessa murmured, her gaze steady, fierce in its gentleness. "And that is why you unsettle me. I came here prepared for politics, not for… this." She gestured faintly between them, the space alive with something neither dared name.
Silence fell again, but it was not heavy — it was charged, sweet, intimate. Talia reached across the flowers between them, her fingertips brushing lightly over Rhenessa's hand. Just a touch, lingering.
"Perhaps it isn't politics that brought you here," Talia whispered, her smile soft, knowing.
Rhenessa's lips curved faintly, but her voice was low, husky. "If you keep speaking like that, my queen, I may not be able to hold myself back."
Talia's heart leapt at the honesty, her body alive with a thrill she hadn't felt in years. Yet she only squeezed Rhenessa's hand gently and leaned back against the ivy, her smile serene.
"We don't need to rush," she said, her tone both soothing and teasing. "Some secrets are best savored."
The diary lay unopened between them, but their confessions had already bared something deeper than ink and parchment.
That night, as they finally rose to leave, they walked side by side — their shoulders nearly brushing, their breaths matching — and though no vow was spoken, both knew the truth: their hearts were already leaning, already tethered. It was only a matter of time.
The silence stretched sweetly between them, Talia's fingers still brushing against Rhenessa's hand. The Empress had meant to hold herself back, meant to savor this slow burn, but the way Talia's golden eyes glimmered in the lanternlight undid her discipline piece by piece.
Without another word, Rhenessa shifted closer, her hand rising to cradle the queen's jaw. "I told you," she murmured, her voice low and dangerous, "if you kept tempting me, I wouldn't hold back."
And then she kissed her.
This kiss was nothing like the first. It was deeper, hungrier, filled with a heat that made Talia gasp softly against her lips. Rhenessa's hand slid into her hair, tugging her closer, while the queen's fingers clutched at the Empress's arm, nails grazing through silk.
The garden seemed to vanish around them — only the heat of their bodies remained, only the unspoken vow passing between lips and breath. Talia shivered as Rhenessa's mouth trailed lightly from her lips to her jaw, then back again, the kiss breaking only to grow more urgent.
When Rhenessa finally pulled back, her violet eyes burned with warning and promise alike. "One day soon," she whispered against Talia's mouth, "I won't stop here. And when that day comes, I'll take all of you — sunlight, crown, and flame."
Talia's breath came fast, her chest rising, her body thrumming with want she hadn't felt in years. Yet she smiled, her voice husky but steady. "Then you'd better be ready, Empress… because when the Sun burns, it does not relent."
They lingered close a moment longer, foreheads touching, before finally drawing apart. The diary lay unopened between them, its silence heavy, as though history itself had been witness.
Later, when they parted for the night, each woman carried the taste of the other on her lips and the ache of what they had not yet dared.
And as they lay in separate beds, both knew the truth: the line they had walked for weeks had been crossed. There was no going back.