The Crown of Waiting

Chapter Two: A Letter Hidden in Roses

Spring did not come easily to Elaria that year. The snow lingered as if reluctant to release its hold, and the skies wept more often than they shone. Yet one morning, beneath the stubborn frost, a single rose dared to bloom in the royal gardens.

It was there that Lysandra found it—a crimson blossom against white, trembling as if it, too, understood defiance. And nestled within its thorns, tied with twine, was a folded piece of parchment.

Her heart stuttered.

She looked around. No one. Just her and the ghost of that winter morning.

With care, she took the letter and opened it beneath the low-hanging branches of the cherry tree. The handwriting was rough, the ink slightly smeared by damp fingers. But the words were clear.

I do not know if this will reach you. I only know that after that morning, the silence has become unbearable.I keep listening for the snow. But now it speaks only of you.— Cassian

Lysandra folded the note and tucked it into the silk lining of her sleeve. Her breath trembled in her chest. A foolish thing, this letter. Treason, even. But it bloomed something inside her that hadn't stirred in years.

The next day, she came again. Another rose. Another note.

The cherry tree waits for spring, even when all else dies. It does not question why. It simply waits.

If I must wait too, so be it. You have given me reason.

She smiled against the petals. The court might never know. The throne might never allow. But here, in the garden's silence, the daughter of kings could be simply a girl. And the soldier with no name could be her secret.

And so began the language of roses.

She wrote in return—briefly, cautiously. Her words were dipped in metaphor, wrapped in riddles. But he understood. He always did. Over weeks, their notes grew longer. Deeper. A courtship written in stolen mornings and blossoms.

One evening, she watched from her tower window as he walked across the garden, unaware of her gaze. He paused by the tree and looked up at the stars, his face lit by moonlight and hope.

She placed her hand on the cold windowpane.

"Some trees only bloom after winter bleeds," she whispered again.

But spring, even in secret, could not last forever.

The rosebushes began to bloom in full by late spring, becoming the guardians of their words. Some days she would leave notes. Others, tiny sketches—his silhouette beneath the cherry tree, a single bird on a snowy branch, or a page of poetry stained with tears.

One day, his note was longer.

When I was a boy, I dreamed of dragons—not to slay them, but to ride them. I dreamed of kings—not to bow to them, but to speak with them. I never dreamed of you. Perhaps because dreams don't dare reach this high. But now I wake for you. I breathe for your footsteps on the stone. If this is treason, I would rather be buried beneath your name than praised beneath a crown not meant for me.

She read it until the paper softened in her hands. And still, she dared not speak his name aloud.

Their world was the garden. Their kingdom, stolen time. The castle loomed around them like a cage made of song and silence, each hour threatening to uncover them.

Then came the day the Queen Regent summoned Lysandra to the Hall of Veils.

"Your suitor arrives from the House of Venmire by month's end," the Queen announced with cool finality. "It is time your future began."

Lysandra said nothing.

But that night, under a full moon, she wrote no poetry.

Only a single line.

Run.