Page 27

The castle gardens remember winter differently than I do.

Frost crunches beneath my feet as I make my way through the maze of dormant beds, my boots leaving perfect prints in the thin layer of snow that still clings to shadowed corners. The air carries that peculiar silence of deep winter, though the brutal cold of recent months has begun to soften around the edges. Even my breath, frosting silver in the weak morning light, seems less substantial than it did just days ago.

I trace my fingers along frost-blackened stems, sensing the dormant life beneath frozen bark. It’s hard to believe that before all of this, plants were my very lifeblood—they were my day and night. My world began and ended at the border of the herb garden I maintained in Essenborn. Most of the plants have died back to their roots, waiting out the endless cold I brought upon them. The roses are mere thorny skeletons now, their summer glory reduced to black stems against graying snow. The great oak that once shaded the central courtyard stands naked against the pearl-gray sky, its mighty branches etched like ink strokes against clouds that promise more snow but never quite deliver.

But here and there, stubborn life persists. Winter jasmine climbs the garden walls in delicate sprays of yellow stars, each bloom perfect despite the killing frost. Hellebores nod their poison-bright heads in the weak sunlight, their colors ranging from deepest purple to the white of fresh snow. In sheltered corners, rosemary and thyme remain green and fragrant when crushed between my fingers, their hardy leaves carrying memories of summer kitchens and healing teas.

The survivors. Like me, I suppose.

A week has passed since we reclaimed the throne. Seven days of gradually strengthening sun, of snow melting from rooftops in crystalline drops that catch light like falling stars. Seven days of my storm finally beginning to loose its grip on Millrath. I can feel the change in my blood, in my bones, in the way my magic settles into new patterns. The wild power that protected me through months of running is gentling now, like a wolf learning to be a hound.

I rest my hand on the swell of my stomach, well visible now beneath the heavy wool of my dress. The fabric is finer than anything I wore during my months of flight—deep blue silk beneath black wool, embroidered with silver thread in patterns that echo frost on windows. A queen's garments, though I'm still learning to feel comfortable in them.

I am warm all the time now, though. I haven’t felt cold in days.

"Your Grace?"

I turn at the quiet voice, movements slower than they once were. The weight of the child and what I went through changes everything—my balance, my stride, the way I carry myself through these familiar-yet-strange spaces. A young woman hovers at the edge of the herb bed I've been examining, her rough hands twisted in her apron. She's human, judging by her height and build, with earth under her fingernails and worry in her eyes.

"The frost killed most of the medicinal herbs," she says, gesturing to the bare beds where neat rows of healing plants once grew. Her accent marks her as local—probably born and raised in Millrath's lower town, where the few humans in this city live. It’s an awful life. She’s likely experienced hardships I’ll never understand. I wish I could ask her, wish I could talk to her. "We tried to protect them when the storms came, covered them with straw and canvas, but…"

"But my winter was too strong." I finish for her, keeping my voice gentle. These are my people now, truly my people, and they need to learn not to fear me. The humans especially—they've lived so long under draconic rule, never quite sure of their place. "Don't worry. Plants are more resilient than we think."

I kneel carefully, one hand bracing against a stone planter for balance. Beneath dead leaves and the detritus of winter, tiny green shoots push through the frozen soil. Brave little soldiers declaring war on the cold. "See? Life finds a way. Even after the harshest winter."

The gardener—barely more than a girl, really—edges closer to look. Her eyes widen as she spots more signs of coming spring: swelling buds on bare branches, the first spears of bulbs pushing through snow, scattered patches of green where particularly stubborn herbs refuse to admit defeat.

"Those are mugwort," she says, pointing to a cluster of serrated leaves. "And there—that's yarrow. Mother used to say yarrow can survive anything. Wars and winters and worse."

"Your mother was wise." I straighten carefully, one hand still pressed to my lower back where the weight of the child pulls hardest. "What's your name?"

"Mari, Your Grace." She bobs a quick curtsey. "My mother was a healer in the lower town, before…" She trails off, but I can guess the rest. Before the winter. Before the storms. Before everything changed.

"Was she skilled with herbs?" When Mari nods, I feel something click into place—a piece of the future I've been trying to envision. "Would you be interested in helping restore these gardens? Not just clearing the dead growth, but planning what to plant come spring? Which medicines the city needs most?"

Her face lights up, then falls just as quickly. "I…I'm just a gardener, Your Grace. The master herbalist…"

"Fled with my brother-in-law's supporters." I wave away her hesitation. "And frankly, I trust someone with dirt under their nails more than all his fancy theoretical knowledge. You know these plants. Know how they grow, how they heal. That's worth more than any number of fancy titles. I grew up selling herbs in my village. It’s work anyone can do, with a little care.”

She stares at me for a long moment, hope warring with generations of knowing her place. Finally, she nods. "I'd be honored, Your Grace. Shall I have the beds cleared for spring planting?"

"Not yet." I shake my head, remembering my grandmother's lessons about the rhythm of seasons. "Let the earth rest a while longer. Some things need time to heal. But come back tomorrow—we'll start planning what to plant where. How to make this garden serve the whole city, not just the castle."

Mari withdraws with another curtsey, but there's a new lightness in her step. I watch her go, thinking about changes big and small, about how rebuilding a kingdom sometimes starts with something as simple as planting herbs.

The sound of boots on gravel makes me smile. I know those footsteps like I know my own heartbeat.

"I thought I'd find you here." My husband’s voice carries equal measures of affection and concern. When his arms slide around me from behind, I lean back against his chest, letting his warmth settle upon me, settle into my very bones. His skin burns fever-hot even through layers of cloth. I could sink and drown in that feeling. I think I’ll always feel that way. "You should be resting."

"I've rested enough." But I cover his hands with mine where they rest over our child. Through our bond, I feel his fierce protectiveness, his constant worry that I'm pushing myself too hard. The connection between us grows stronger each day, letting me sense not just his surface emotions but the deeper currents beneath—love and fear and desperate hope all tangled together. "How went the meetings?"

He makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, steam curling from his mouth. "House Bellrose sends renewed oaths of fealty, for whatever those are worth. Their ravens arrived this morning—pages and pages of flowery language about eternal loyalty, as if they hadn't been ready to support my brother's claim just days ago."

"They're scared." I trace patterns on the back of his hand, feeling scales ripple beneath his skin at my touch. "All the Houses are. After what happened…they need to know where they stand.”

"Where they stand is at our mercy." But there's less heat in the words than there would have been months ago. "Morwen and Vos suggest a grand council to 'discuss the future of the realm.' As if I don't know what that means—they want concessions. Guarantees. Promises written in blood and sealed with magic. There is only so much they can demand. They know what to fear." Unspoken: you.

"Would that be so terrible?" I turn in his arms to face him, studying the new lines that worry has carved around his eyes, sedimented there. Dark circles beneath them speak of too many sleepless nights, too many hours spent poring over reports and negotiations. He’s hardly rested since we got back to the city "The Houses aren't our enemies, Arvoren. Not anymore. They're part of the kingdom we'll build together—the kingdom our child will inherit."

His jaw tightens, scales rippling beneath his skin. "They turned on me once. Supported my brother's bid for power. How can I ever trust them again?"

"The same way I learned to trust you." I touch his face, thumb tracing one of those new worry lines. "By choosing to believe in the possibility of change. Of growth. Of something better than what came before."

For a long moment he just looks at me, and I see the battle in his eyes—the need to protect warring with the desire to grow, to change, to become the king his people truly need. I can tell he’s remembering all I’ve told him, the warnings I gave him when we were alone in the frost.

Finally he sighs, pressing his forehead to mine.

"House Morwen arrives next week to begin negotiations," he says. "Vos and Bellrose the week after. Their ravens say they're bringing their families this time—wives, children, their whole courts. As if that proves their peaceful intentions."

"Or as if they truly want to start fresh." I smooth my hands down his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my palms. "Will you let me help? Not as your prize or possession, but as your queen? Your partner?"

The word makes something warm unfurl in his chest. I feel it through our bond, eternal sunrise after endless night. "You know I value your counsel more than anyone's now. But the Houses…I fear they may not be ready to hear wisdom from the heretic."

"Then they'll learn." I smile, letting a hint of winter steel enter my voice. "As you did. As we all must."

He laughs—a real laugh, not the sharp bark of dragon-fury I grew used to in those early days. "Sometimes I forget how fierce you can be, little bird. Even now."

"I'm not so little anymore." I gesture to my swollen belly with mock indignation, and am rewarded with another laugh. Through our bond, I feel his joy and terror mingle as our child kicks, strong enough for us both to feel.

"No," he agrees softly, hand spanning my middle. "You've grown into something far more magnificent than I ever imagined. Than I ever deserved."

"Arvoren…" But before I can protest this self-recrimination, another kick interrupts me. His eyes widen, and through our bond I feel his awe overshadow everything else.

"They know their father's voice," I say, covering his hand with mine. "They always move more when you're near. Can you feel how their magic reaches for yours?"

Arvoren’s hand trembles slightly where it rests against my belly. For all his power, all his strength, nothing undoes my husband quite like these small reminders of the life we've created together. Through our bond, I sense him reaching with his own magic, dragon-fire meeting winter storm in the space between heartbeats.

"I never thought…" He breaks off, smoke curling from between his teeth. The air around us warms noticeably, snow melting in a perfect circle where we stand. "When you fled, when I couldn't find you…I thought I'd lost everything. But you came back. You chose—"

"I chose us," I finish for him, remembering dark nights and darker choices. "Chose to believe we could build something better than what we were. I chose to trust that you could become the man I needed you to be. And I’m beginning to believe I was right."

He kisses me then, gentle as falling snow. I melt into him, savoring the way his arms tighten around me—protective but not possessive, strong but not crushing.

We've both learned so much about the difference between holding and containing.

A gust of wind sweeps through the garden, carrying the crisp scent of coming snow. Dead leaves skitter across frozen ground, and the bare branches above us creak and sway. For a moment—just a moment—I think I catch another scent beneath the winter-clean air, something I can’t place.

Arvoren feels my sudden tension through our bond. "What is it?"

"Nothing." I try to smile, but the unease lingers. "Just the wind."

His eyes narrow as he scans the garden, scales rippling beneath his skin. He knows me too well, knows my every tell. Knows what I refuse to say out loud.

"You're worried about Ulric."

"Aren't you?" I press closer to his warmth, though the chill I feel now has nothing to do with the weather. "He's still out there somewhere. Nursing his wounds, plotting his revenge. I know your brother, Arvoren. He won't simply vanish into exile."

"Let him plot." Smoke curls thicker from my husband's mouth, and the air around us grows noticeably warmer. "Let him gather whatever broken forces still follow him. He'll never touch you again. Either of you. I made a promise. I intend to keep it."

I want to believe him. Want to trust that we're truly safe, that the future stretching before us holds nothing but peace and healing and the joy of watching our child grow. But I remember the madness in Ulric's eyes during that last battle. Remember his obsession with power, his need to possess what was never his to take.

"We'll be ready," Arvoren says, reading my thoughts through our bond. "Whatever comes next, we face it together. No more secrets. No more running."

"No more cages," I add quietly. "For any of us."

He nods, understanding all I leave unsaid. Together we look out over the winter-quiet garden, where tiny green shoots promise renewal beneath the snow. A weak ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds, turning frost to diamonds on bare branches.

So much has changed since I first walked these paths in chains. The woman I was then feels like a stranger now—afraid and angry and so desperately alone. I touch my belly, feeling our child move beneath my palm. They carry both our magics, winter storm and dragon-fire combined. Something that could reshape this kingdom, if we raise them with wisdom and love instead of fear and control.

"We should go in," Arvoren says reluctantly. "You'll freeze out here."

I laugh, letting my magic swirl playfully around us in a flurry of snowflakes. "I never freeze, my love. Or have you forgotten who you married?"

His smile shows teeth, sharp and bright in the winter light. "How could I forget? You remind me every day what a miracle it is that you chose to stay. That you're truly mine."

"Yours," I agree, taking his hand. "As you are mine. As we both belong to this land, to our people, to the future we'll build together."

We walk back toward the castle, our footprints mingling in the fresh snow. Above us, clouds gather for another storm—but a gentle one this time, promising renewal rather than destruction. Spring approaches, carrying with it the chance to grow something new from the ashes of what was lost.

I lean into my husband's warmth as we climb the steps, feeling our child move between us. There will be more battles ahead, more wounds to heal, more trust to build between not just us but all the broken pieces of this realm. But for now, in this quiet moment as weak sunlight gilds frost into diamonds and our magics dance together in the winter air, I let myself believe in our future.

The garden remembers winter. But it also remembers how to bloom.

It is a cruel irony that the next time I stand in that very garden, the worst comes to pass.