Chapter One · The Forbidden Garden

Princess Lyra stepped across the line she had been told never to cross, dragging her steward, Obewich, with her. Short and plump, he struggled to keep up, his round belly bouncing as he stumbled after her, breathless.

“Your Highness... if His Majesty finds out, we’re—”

Lyra raised a finger to her lips.

“If you don’t say anything, no one will.”

Obewich fell silent. His eyebrows twitched, but no words came.

Ever since she was old enough to ask, the King had told Lyra the garden was dangerous.

He had never told her why, though she was eleven now.

Was it because she had no magic?

In the royal family, that was no small flaw.

People noticed.

People whispered.

Lyra knew one bad mistake could make them question why she was heir at all.

She went deeper into the garden anyway.

A faint breeze curled around her. The skin on the back of Lyra’s neck prickled.

She leaned closer to Obewich, her voice dropping.

“It feels like something’s breathing.”

Obewich stiffened. He bent nearer.

“Stay close.”

Lyra studied him.

Is the garden really that scary?

She stepped closer, looking straight into his eyes.

“Where are the flowers that whisper stories?”

He swallowed.

“This way.”

Then he glanced deeper into the garden, hesitated, and corrected himself.

“No. We should head back. To the palace.”

Lyra frowned, then shook her head. She moved on, searching, her gaze drifting upward.

Faint whispers drifted through the branches, growing clearer with every step.

She nudged Obewich.

“Obewich... do you hear that?”

He froze, then smoothed his expression.

“Hear what?”

It came again.

Closer.

Voices overlapped, whispering beneath the rustle of leaves.

They rounded a narrow bend, and the path opened into a small, crescent-shaped garden.

Giant tulips towered overhead, shuddering, their petals pulsing in uneven beats.

One snapped upright.

Its petals peeled back, unfolding toward Lyra.

“Ah... an angel.”

That was it.

The same voice.

Lyra stopped. Never in her life had she seen a flower so large. But it wasn’t alone. One by one, the other tulips fell silent, their whispers dying away as every bloom turned toward her.

She started forward again. Behind her, Obewich shot the tulips a warning look. As they passed, one tulip flicked its leaves in a brief, side-to-side rustle. Its petals slumped just enough to mock Obewich before straightening again as if nothing had happened.

“Come closer.”

Their voices stretched thin, brushing against her.

“Little angel...”

Lyra stepped closer, Obewich following just behind her. They stopped among the towering flowers.

Obewich lifted a hand, his mouth parting as if to speak, then stilled.

Darkness gathered across the petals of the tulip before her, curling into a thin, grinning line.

The line parted.

Only a mouth.

No eyes.

Lyra flinched. Then she steadied herself. They were only magical things that could talk. Nothing more.

The tulip spoke again.

“Do you want a tale?”

Another tulip beside it joined in.

“Or the story of what lies... beneath your feet?”

Lyra glanced down.

“What lies beneath?”

The tulips’ mouths opened wider, as if ready to answer.

Before they could, Obewich gave Lyra two quick, urgent taps on the shoulder.

“Your Highness. We need to go—quick, quick.”

Lyra didn’t turn. Her eyes stayed fixed on the flowers, bright with interest, as though she hadn’t heard him.

Obewich caught her by the wrist and hurried away, pulling her after him.

“They talk nonsense. Don’t listen to them. They never stop.”

“Wait, I haven’t heard the tale.”

He didn’t let go. His pace quickened.

Even as he led her away, Lyra looked back at the flowers.

Why doesn’t he want me to know?

She didn’t resist. Obewich had looked after her for years, and she respected him too much to pull away.

So she kept walking with him.

The whispers thinned behind them, carried away by the wind.

But the questions remained.

A moment later, they emerged into a wider stretch of the garden. Something shimmered ahead.

A fountain.

Lyra slowed, her gaze snagging on it.

“What’s over there? I want to see it.”

Obewich hesitated.

“Perhaps later. There are bushes nearby that release bubbles when you touch them.”

Before Obewich could finish, Lyra was already several steps ahead.

Three boys playing beside the fountain caught her eye.

“Friends,” she said, her eyes going wide.

And then she was running.

“Your Highness. Wait—”

Obewich froze, his mouth still open.

“Gods above...”

She was already halfway there.

Lyra had no idea who those boys were.

Something about this felt wrong.

She had never really had a friend her own age. She was different, and everyone knew it.

Yet she looked so happy.

He couldn’t bring himself to take that away from her.

So Obewich remained where he was, stiff as a statue, watching her.

Across the lawn, Lyra had already reached the fountain. Sunlight slipped through the gentle ribbons of water, scattering soft rainbows across the ground.

The boys no longer held her attention.

Something else did.

A red gemstone, several times larger than her palm, hovered high above the fountain, slowly turning in the air.

The Rubiad.

Beyond her reach.

Lyra stood below, staring up at it.

Yet somehow, despite the distance between them, she felt something connect.

Only for a moment.

The Rubiad flashed.

At the same instant, Lyra’s heart skipped a beat.

She stared up at it, dazed. One foot slipped back on its own.

A few feet in front of her, a boy hovered above the ground, held aloft by a slow current of air.

He looked down at her.

“Who are you? Why don’t you have an aura?”

His voice pulled Lyra back to the moment.

How dare he?

He looks royal enough. Has no one taught him any manners?

Something twisted tight in her chest.

No one had ever said it aloud.

Lyra straightened and lifted her chin.

“I’m the princess of this kingdom.”

Behind him, the other two boys laughed.

“A princess?”

“Without magic?”

Lyra’s brows knit.

The audacity.

“Haris is the strongest,” one of them added. “Everyone knows that.”

Haris tilted his head, a faint, amused smile on his lips.

Lyra felt as though someone had dragged a dirty rag across her name.

She settled into a stance, both fists clenched, but she stepped back.

Not worth it.

Haris arched a brow.

“Shouldn’t you be in the palace studying? What are you doing here?”

“I go where I please. Is there a problem?”

He gave a sharp smile.

“No. Your Highness.”

He raised a hand. Then flicked his fingers. The air tightened.

Lyra’s eyes widened.

What’s he doing?

Water tore free from the fountain.

A single wave rose and slammed straight into her chest.

She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs.

“Your Highness!”

Obewich rushed forward.

Disaster has struck after all.

He dropped beside her, his eyes sweeping over her for any sign of injury.

“Are you hurt?”

His voice was unsteady.

Across from them, Haris dropped his hand at once.

His face went pale.

But behind him, the other two boys doubled over, laughing at her.

Pain flared through her hip. Her palms burned against the stone. Water drenched her face and dress.

Lyra twisted the wet ribbon at her waist, her gaze fixed on Haris. Their laughter hurt more than the fall. She could feel her soaked dress sticking to her skin, feel every eye on what she lacked.

She pushed herself up, forcing her breath back into rhythm. Her hip still ached. She ignored it.

“Want to fight?”

Haris stilled.

She isn’t crying. Most girls would’ve whined by now.

Lyra’s shoulders trembled.

She wanted to hurt him back. Just to wipe those looks off their faces.

She stepped toward him, then checked herself.

If I had my sword.

I wouldn’t have stepped back.

But I’m the princess.

I don’t get to be reckless.

Her fists tightened. Then loosened.

But if I fought him...

Would I win?

The corners of her eyes stung.

Above the fountain, the Rubiad flickered, then steadied.

Obewich stepped between them.

“Princes,” he snapped. “If His Majesty hears about this, there will be consequences.”

One of them scoffed.

“Come on, Haris.”

Haris turned away. He didn’t say anything else.

The three boys started off.

Lyra kept her eyes on their backs.

I didn’t deserve that.

Her gaze dropped to her feet.

A stone. Just the right size.

I won’t let this go.

Her attention returned to it.

I’m the heir. I set the rules.

Just then, the chubby prince at the back glanced over his shoulder, still wearing that mocking look.

“Enough!” Lyra snapped.

She bent down and picked up the stone. No hesitation. She threw.

Thud.

“Ah!”

The stone struck him squarely on the back of the head.

Haris and the other boy spun around instantly.

The thin boy’s hand shot out. A spark sliced through the air, sharp as a blade.

Lyra had already stepped back half a beat before it reached her.

Obewich created a magical barrier around Lyra, stopping the spark just short of her face.

He frowned, his stern gaze fixed on the thin prince.

“Prince.”

The thin prince froze, then lowered his hand.

The three of them turned and walked away, their figures fading into the distance.

Lyra brushed her hands off.

“Serves him right.”

She turned to Obewich.

“Let’s go back to the palace.”

Obewich lowered his head.

“Yes.”

They walked on in silence.

The garden felt different now.

Something inside her did not quite follow. Her gaze drifted into the distance, unfocused.

Strength rules this kingdom.

Haris has it.

I don’t.

Then what am I?

If I have to prove my worth, I’ll prove it another way.

A short while later, Obewich noticed her dress had dried in the passing breezes. But the brightness had not returned to her face.

She must be really upset.

He opened the basket, then paused. He wasn’t sure what the right thing to say was.

“I brought sweets,” he said gently. “And apples.”

Lyra quickened her pace.

This is no place for tears.

Obewich closed the basket and followed.

Better not to say anything.

They walked on, leaving the garden farther behind with every step, until they were nearly back at the Grand Palace.

Lyra stopped.

“Obewich...”

Her voice wavered.

“Are the tulips... calling me?”

He noticed the faint redness around her eyes, the shine she tried to hide. He looked away.

“We’ve left the garden,” he said. His voice remained steady, but his grip tightened on the basket.

“But I hear something.” She turned, pointing back. “Listen.”

He strained to listen.

Only wind.

Leaves.

Then...

“Princess Lyra!”

A boy came running toward them, his black cloak edged in red snapping behind him. He skidded to a stop just short of Lyra.

Wind-tossed and breathless, he said, “Finally caught up with you.”

“Were you looking for me?” Lyra asked.

He hesitated. The words seemed to catch in his throat.

“Yes. I... was out for a walk and happened to pass the fountain,” he said. “I saw what happened. Those princes were out of line. ...I wasn’t trying to chase after you. I just didn’t like the way they treated you.”

“It’s fine,” she said, turning away.

His gaze flicked briefly to the ribbon at her waist.

“Are you all right?”

“Forget it. I’m perfectly fine.”

“But...” He stopped.

“But what?”

“I think you’ll be stronger than Haris one day.”

Lyra let out a short, surprised laugh.

“You really think so?”

He nodded.

“I’m Orlas. My father’s the Chancellor. He talks about you sometimes. Says you’re in the prophecy.”

He said it all in one breath, with simple earnestness.

Lyra blinked at him. Then it clicked.

“Oh. You’re Uncle Syveris’s son.”

Lyra brightened at once, the guarded look leaving her face.

“If you ever want to play, send a letter by Spirit Bird. I’ll come.”

Warmth spread through her, and a small smile touched her lips. At last, she had a friend.

“All right. I’ll see you around.”

Obewich let out a long breath. Her Highness had cheered up. He could worry a little less now.

Orlas dipped his head, then turned and walked away, disappearing among the trees.

Lyra watched until he was gone. Then she reached up and pinched Obewich’s cheek.

He yelped.

She giggled as though nothing had happened at all.

Neither of them noticed the shadow shifting among the branches high above them.

A raven.

It had not made a sound.

Not once.

It watched the path long after she was gone.

Then, with a single beat of its wings, it took flight.

Far beyond the palace walls, in a chamber where no wind could reach, a man lifted his gaze.

The raven settled onto his arm. A faint curve touched his lips.

“Still no aura,” he said quietly.

“Good.”

His fingers brushed once along the bird’s feathers.

“Then the seal is holding.”