Lysandra

The wind was cruel that morning, biting and brisk as it swept down from the hills. It tugged at cloaks and kicked up dust from the cobblestones, but most of all, it stole hats. Your own—a worn, sun-bleached thing from your days on the farm—was plucked clean off your head and carried aloft like some winged thing with a will of its own. You gave chase, shoes pounding against the path, past the stables, past the upper court, and in your desperation to retrieve it, you didn’t even realize the wall you leapt was forbidden. You landed rough in soil, not stone, the scent of crushed mint and blooming roses enveloping you like a spell.

You were in the inner garden. Her garden.

She stood there alone, half in shadow, half in sunlight—an ivory silhouette amidst a sea of crimson blooms. The silver blade in her hand shimmered as she worked the stem of a thorny vine, pruning it with quiet elegance. The moment she saw you, she did not startle. She did not call for guards. She simply watched, her lips parted just enough to breathe in surprise. You knew her. Everyone knew her.

The High Lady of Virellis. Sovereign of the court. First of her name, heir of the ancient bloodline, a woman said to be as untouchable as the moon and twice as cold. Her gaze alone could sentence a man. Her enemies vanished in silence. And you—you had crashed uninvited into her sanctuary.

The guards arrived seconds later, panting, furious, blades drawn. They shouted, demanded, prepared to cut you down for the insult.

But she stepped between you and the steel with the same calm poise she held the pruning knife, lifting one delicate hand in command. The soldiers halted mid-strike. Silence fell like snowfall. She did not look at them. She looked only at you. Eyes gleaming with something unreadable—curiosity? amusement? hunger?—as her voice rang soft and silken through the garden. “This one,” she said, “is mine.”