Ruins And Royalty

The Scent of Flowers and a Sense of Guilt - Chp 3 Part 1

“No, I’ve just come from a place of some small importance,” I replied, forcing a thin smile and hoping the heat that crept across my face did not betray the embarrassment coiling in my chest.

Before me stood Prince Torin and his youngest sister, Princess Izara, each adorned in garments that draped like flowing water, elegant yet commanding. After exchanging the formal courtesies befitting their station, they invited me to accompany them on a walk through the nearby gardens. I agreed, partly out of duty, but mostly because the thought of returning to the armoury after that graceless encounter with the Council felt like wading back into a pit of thorns.

“You put on quite a spectacle last night,” Torin remarked as we began our stroll, his tone light but his eyes sharp with curiosity. “The whole kingdom hums with your name... again.”

He cast me a sidelong glance, as though fishing in shallow waters, waiting for me to take the bait. But I had grown weary of telling and retelling the same tale, each repetition like grinding a stone down to dust.

Before I could respond, Izara’s voice cut through the air, smooth and deliberate. “I’d rather speak of the other kingdoms. They are expected to arrive in the coming days, are they not?” Her disinterest in the previous night’s events was a welcome reprieve, and I seized it.

“The Wren family from the Kingdom of Palisade is said to be first,” I offered.

Torin let out a low chuckle. “I cannot say I’m eager to meet them. Their name is weighed down with more scandal than yours, and that is saying something.”

His words did no sting, but I’d grown used to such jests. I merely shrugged, letting the remark fall away like leaves carried off by a passing breeze.

“Indeed,” Izara added with a knowing tilt of her head. “The eldest prince is rumoured to be as ruthless as winter’s first frost.”

“And his sisters?” Torin grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “They’re no gentler.” He gave me a wink, laced with implication.

Izara’s expression soured, her gaze snapping to him in quiet reprimand before turning to me, as though to gauge whether I’d caught the barb hidden in his jest. But the meaning sailed past me like an arrow loosed too early, and I simply looked between them, unbothered.

“I hardly think they would prove a match for my siblings in battle,” I replied, uncertain if my words struck true or merely filled the silence. Torin exhaled sharply and lifted his shoulders in a shrug, dissatisfied, though Princess Izara seemed delighted by my answer, her eyes brightening like a child granted her wish.

We passed beneath a cobblestone archway and entered upon a path paved with smooth stone, its way leading us into a garden that might have belonged to the gods themselves. The air changed. Softer, scented with blooms. Before us stretched a colonnade of pale pillars, their marble shoulders bearing a lattice roof where vines climbed and clung, threaded through with yellow blossoms no larger than a coin. Patterns of shifting light wove across our faces as we walked, as though the heavens had draped us in a living tapestry.

Beds of flowers spread out along the path, each more vivid than the last, while fountains of carved stone whispered with falling water. Soon we came upon a cluster of perennials, their long green stems rising proudly, each crowned with petals that flared open like trumpets of ivory and rose, displaying within them delicate clusters of stamen like golden dust.

“You have the most beautiful lilies growing here,” Izara said at last, bending low to admire one. Her golden hair spilled forward, catching the light, and with a small gesture she tucked a stray strand behind her ear so it would not brush against her cheek.

She cupped the blossom tenderly, bringing her narrow nose close to its petals, her face lighting with quiet joy.

“You may take one, if it pleases you,” I said, watching her. She smiled at me, bright as polished bronze, and plucked the flower she already held.

“The shade of pink suits your complexion well, Sister. Wouldn’t you agree, Aaron?” Torin asked, his eyes fixed on me, amusement playing at his lips.

“It does,” I answered shortly, though I felt the weight of something unspoken between them, their words carrying a meaning I could not quite seize.

“As fair as lilies may be, I will always prefer the roses,” Izara mused, her gaze drifting over the garden as if searching for them.

“They are said to be the most romantic blooms in all of Yarrow,” Torin remarked lightly as we walked further along the path.

“Especially a white rose,” Izara added, pressing a hand to her chest as though the thought itself stirred her heart. She walked ahead of us with a distant look, her eyes lifted heavenward, a smile soft upon her lips as if she had glimpsed some private paradise.

Torin, however, kept close at my side, his gaze slipping toward me with an edge of mischief.

“I daresay you’ve had countless maidens weave flowers into your hair,” he said at last, breaking the silence that had grown between us.

“No,” I replied, my eyes fixed firmly upon the stones of the path.

“With a face like yours? Surely you jest.” He laughed, but his words carried an undertone.

I knew well enough what he hinted at, though the games of love held little interest for me.

Flowers had long been a symbol of love, and from this grew a custom: placing blossoms in another’s hair marked a confession of affection. Should the gesture be returned within the same day, it meant the feeling was mutual; if not, the silence itself was the rejection.

In more recent years, a bolder tradition had taken root among our generation. Red rose petals slipped into someone’s hair carried a far less subtle meaning, an invitation not of romance, but of desire. Acceptance came when those petals were laid before the suitor’s door at midnight; refusal was shown by their absence, leaving the seeker to walk home in disappointment.

I knew the custom well enough. Once, a servant's daughter with words slicker than oil on water and skin softer that silk slipped me a rose and by midnight I had gathered spread them at my door, her presence soon after filling the silence of my room and both my hands. Another time, a nobleman's son, with laughter light as the sea breeze left a returning trail of crimson petals, and let’s just say his laughter subsided with moans carrying far louder from within my chambers and my view of a curved back.

“Sorry to disappoint, but the only petals I’ve ever had in my hair were red roses.” I shrugged, letting it fall from me like a feather on a breeze, as if the confession meant nothing.

“You dirty dog,” Torin muttered under his breath, nudging me with his elbow, a smirk tugging at his lips.

His sister caught the exchange and turned toward us, eyes narrowing. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear sister,” Torin replied, scratching the back of his head.

We wound through a grove of sculpted shrubs and stoic trees until the path opened into a clearing dominated by a fountain. A soft stone statue rose from its center: a young woman, poised as if listening to some invisible muse, holding an amulet shaped like the sun. At her feet, an older, distorted figure clawed toward it, her form twisted with longing, like a shadow stretching for light through a fractured mirror.

Water lilies drifted across the basin like floating fragments of glass, and koi fish slipped beneath the surface in silent, graceful arcs. The fountain’s water whispered against marble, carrying a melody only the wind could conduct, and the breeze danced with the trees, bending branches as if in quiet reverence.

“How beautiful!” Izara breathed, pressing her flower to her chest.

I couldn’t deny it. There was a strange, subtle beauty here. But unlike them, I had no need to linger; the gardens felt more like a stage for others’ admiration than for my own. They moved from scene to scene, drinking in every detail, as if the air itself had a flavor meant for their senses alone.

A scent tugged at me, familiar and soft, like memory itself wound into the air. Honeysuckle vines climbed a cedar trellis to my right, shading a lone bench of exposed stone. The perfume of the blooms was gentle yet insistent, brushing against me with the quiet persistence of a remembered voice.

Prince Zander must have passed through here before the library, lingering at this exact spot. Though the garden offered many places for honeysuckle to blossom, I could feel the subtle mark of his presence, the echo of his footsteps pressed into the worn path, as though the vines themselves remembered him.

I stepped closer, tilting the flower toward my face. A heady aroma hit me... sweet, fruity, with a warm undertone of honey and ripe citrus. It was almost too much, a fragrance that pressed insistently against my senses. And yet, beneath it, I detected something else: a trace of another floral note, faint but unmistakable. The honeysuckle was not alone. The Prince had left a mark here too, his presence mingling quietly with the blossoms, subtle but impossible to ignore. For a moment, the garden ceased to be just a garden; nature itself became a living story, intricate and intoxicating, demanding my full attention.

Then the familiar thrum of guilt pressed in, unwelcome and sharp. My thoughts drifted to how I had acted around him, the weight of my own words and missteps settling over me like a stubborn shadow. Irritation spiked, and I pulled back from the flower, huffing in frustration. Why did it matter so much, when it usually didn’t?

Maybe… maybe if I confessed, admitted my lies, apologized. If I acknowledged the truth, I could quiet the restless tug in my chest. Perhaps then he would finally slip from my thoughts, leaving me in peace. But even as I considered it, I knew the notion felt almost laughable; some part of me doubted he, or my own mind, would allow such simplicity.