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Hadrian wanted me to ride on his wyvern for the very first time.

I have told him on countless occasions that we witches do not travel by such means.

He says that it is for fun. I am not scared, if I fall off I shall use my magic.

But the enormous beast stares at me sometimes as if it could somehow understand me.

As if it knew that my hands shake slightly at its mere presence and it enjoys inflicting such an emotion on me.

I will never understand wyverians and their love for these foul creatures.

Tabitha Wysteria

Mal spent the rest of the evening drowning in irritation, her body taut with frustration at the Fire Prince’s arrogance.

His devilish smirk haunted her, a silent mockery that infuriated her more than if he had spoken outright.

He had refused to answer her questions, had toyed with her patience as though she were some game for his amusement.

The thought of being shackled to such a man, of enduring a lifetime bound to his silence, made her stomach twist in revulsion.

But in the end, it did not matter.

She would marry him.

And then she would kill him.

Kai broke her thoughts with a groan of disgust. ‘The food is revolting,’ he said, spitting out a mouthful of something that resembled a tart, though Mal suspected it had never seen anything sour in its making.

She grinned at the disgust curling his lips, but her amusement did not last. The weight of the drakonian stares pressed against her like a noose.

Not a single courtier dared approach them, yet every pair of eyes remained glued to them, watchful, waiting, as though the wyverians might lunge at any moment, tear into their throats, and feast upon their flesh.

The fear in their eyes delighted Mal. She smiled wickedly, baring just enough fang to watch them recoil.

‘I need air.’

She did not wait for permission. Vanishing from the Grand Hall, she slipped down a dim corridor, her boots silent against the polished stone, searching for an escape from the suffocating feast. When she finally stepped into a small interior garden, the air lightened, scented with roses and the dryness of earth.

Vines curled like the fingers of ancient spirits up the marble walls, crimson roses blooming in defiant splendour, spilling their petals onto the cobbled ground like offerings to the gods.

It was nothing like the wilderness of her homeland, where the roots of Nightrose twisted through graves, their dark petals kissed by shadow.

And yet, she could not deny that this place held its own strange beauty.

‘I love roses, do you not?’

Mal spun, hand instinctively reaching for the blade hidden beneath her skirt, only to still at the sight of Queen Cyra.

The queen stood framed by the archway, bathed in moonlight, a vision of elegance draped in silk. Behind her, two guards lingered, their presence a quiet but unmistakable threat.

The queen’s fingers traced over the petals of a rose as she inhaled its fragrance, her eyes slipping shut as though savouring something forbidden.

‘We grow only red roses here,’ she said, voice languid, ‘ though we dye some gold. A frivolous effort, wouldn’t you agree?

Pointless, perhaps, and yet… there is beauty in trivial things. ’

Mal’s gaze trailed over the garden, finding no golden roses in sight.

‘Ah,’ the queen said, noticing her searching glance, ‘we do not keep them here. They are special—reserved for my chambers. Their scent soothes my headaches.’

Something in the way she said it made Mal uneasy.

‘I did not know some roses were more special than others, your majesty,’ Mal replied evenly. ‘A rose is a rose, is it not?’

The queen’s lips curved into a humourless smile.

‘To the unseeing, yes. But each rose has a purpose. Some exist to remain in the garden, admired yet untouched, their fate rooted in place. Others, the finest among them, are plucked—cut from their vines to adorn our homes, our tables, our gowns. We are not so different from them, princess.’

Mal’s fingers curled against her skirts. ‘How so?’

‘Some of us are chosen for greater purposes.’

The words clung to Mal like cobwebs, whispering of a meaning she did not yet grasp.

The queen tilted her head, eyes gleaming with sharp curiosity. ‘Your eyes,’ she mused, ‘are… uncommon.’

The words coiled like a noose around Mal’s throat. Uncommon. Different. Cursed .

She had dreaded hearing them ever since she arrived.

‘So I have been told, your majesty.’

‘Has no one ever explained why?’ The queen’s fingers drifted over another rose, the delicate petals trembling beneath her touch.

Mal’s spine straightened. ‘No, your majesty. No one knows. I was simply born with them.’

A pause. A long, heavy silence filled with the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the feast.

‘It is also uncommon,’ the queen continued, ‘for the kings and queens of your land to have four children.’

Mal stilled.

‘Not uncommon,’ she corrected softly. ‘Unheard of.’

At last, the queen turned, her eyes burning with something unreadable, something that sent a whisper of warning through Mal’s bones.

‘And does anyone have an explanation for that?’

Mal hesitated. There were many whispered theories—some claimed the gods had altered tradition, others that it was a warning of calamity yet to come. And some… some spoke of curses.

‘No, your majesty.’

The queen regarded her for a lingering moment, then exhaled lightly, as though the conversation had tired her. ‘We ought to return. It is impolite to withhold our company from the court. And I feel a headache coming on.’

As she turned, her silken skirts rustling, Mal’s gaze fell upon the rose at her feet—ripped from its stem, crushed within the queen’s grasp.

Broken. Twisted.

A warning.

Mal did not need the gods to tell her what it meant. For in that moment, she realised her fate. She, too, was a rose in the queen’s garden.

And one day, she would be plucked.

…

Alina had always loathed these extravagant affairs.

They sent the queen into weeks of hysteria, fretting over the most trivial details—details no one truly noticed.

The king, as always, busied himself with drinking and regaling the court with embellished tales of his youth.

And the guests? Every single one of them spent the evening scrutinizing her, their eyes raking over every inch of her as though she were the main spectacle.

The young ladies, in particular, would await the next festivity with bated breath, eager to see what Alina would wear—because, of course, she was expected to outdo herself each time.

Not a single golden strand of hair could be out of place, lest whispers and snickers rise behind her back.

Every gem adorning her neck and fingers was polished for days beforehand, ensuring they gleamed as brilliantly as the sun itself.

Tonight, however, all of that had changed.

For the first time, no one paid any mind to the golden gown she wore, despite the exquisite dragons embroidered into its fabric, each one encrusted with jewels. No one whispered about how dazzling she looked beneath the candlelight or how perfectly her attire complemented her delicate features.

Every gaze—every pair of sharp, prying eyes—was fixed upon the wyverian princess.

Alina’s blood simmered.

She had always despised the attention, the relentless scrutiny, the pressure of perfection.

And yet… what was she without it? Nothing .

Her brother was to be king, despite wanting no part of it.

And as for her? No one had ever asked what she wanted.

Her future had been carved out for her since birth—she would marry a wealthy nobleman, be swept away to live in his estate, and slowly fade into obscurity.

Yes, she would still attend the grand feasts, the lavish balls, the endless festivities.

But she would always be just that. A princess.

And even if Ash bore no heirs, the crown would never pass to her. It would be handed to one of her sons, as though she herself were nothing more than a vessel, as though her own ability to rule was never worth considering.

Alina was good for one thing—parading in exquisite gowns, her beauty the most envied in the land.

Whatever she wore became the height of fashion, her presence dictating trends, her every whim shaping the way the noblewomen dressed.

They longed to resemble her, to mirror her elegance.

They envied her. But what was there to envy?

She did nothing for her kingdom beyond setting the fashion of the court.

The women changed their hairstyles on a whim, depending on Alina’s mood.

She was beautiful.

And yet, she was so much more.

Her thoughts were disrupted when her gaze caught movement—a shadow slipping through a hallway.

The wyverian prince, Kai.

Alina watched as he disappeared through a doorway, vanishing into the depths of the castle.

A fleeting moment of hesitation gripped her. If she left the feast, her mother would be furious. But did it truly matter? The queen was nowhere to be seen, and the king was lost in laughter, surrounded by his closest friends as he retold yet another tiresome story no one truly cared for.

So, without another thought, Alina followed.

She trailed the wyverian prince down a set of narrow, spiraling stairs, ones clearly meant for servants. The air grew cooler as they descended, and the deeper they went, the more unease crept into her chest.

Then, suddenly, realisation struck .

They were headed towards the dragon caves beneath the castle.

Alina stopped in her tracks. She was not permitted down there without supervision. Only the dragon handlers were allowed to approach the beasts.

And yet, despite the warning voice in her head, she took another step forward.

‘You ought to not look so spooked in your own home, princess,’ a voice whispered in the darkness.