Lilith in lace

The day was calm, the kind where the sky seemed to hum quietly in soft blues and pale gold. Nothing unusual stirred in the air; even the birds moved with a gentle rhythm, as if the world were holding its breath. She moved through her small cottage with habitual grace, her large doe eyes wide with innocence, reflecting a quiet curiosity about everything around her. Drawn by habit or perhaps a fleeting thought of solitude, she stepped out to the garden at the back. Her roses, once proud and vibrant, drooped as though crushed by an unseen hand, petals bent and stems bent low to the earth. Her heart caught briefly at the sight — a pang of unease she could not yet name. And then she saw him. Lying there, half-sunk in the mud, his dark coat smeared and his posture strangely casual, yet unsettling. He looked almost as if he belonged to the shadows, yet he drew her gaze as inexorably as a flame draws a moth. The garden, once familiar and safe, now felt charged, as though the air itself waited for her next move. She stepped closer, nudging him lightly with her stick, but when his face came into view, her breath caught. She recognized him at first sight. A frown tugged at her lips. This was not a fairy tale; she was not a damsel sent to save a prince. He would rise when he woke, and he would survive — he was not injured, not in danger of death. With a shrug of resolve, she turned away, letting the garden swallow the scene behind her. “What a bad day,” she muttered softly, though her mind churned with curiosity she did not yet name. The bent roses and the mud-stained figure faded from sight as she made her way back to the calm of her cottage, leaving him to his unconscious slumber. She did not think of him again. At least, that was what she told herself. The rest of the day passed as usual. She swept the cottage, fed the chickens, and spent the afternoon repairing a tear in her favorite dress. Yet every now and then, her gaze drifted toward the garden. Not because she cared. She simply wanted to know if the stranger had finally left. As dusk settled over the hills, painting the sky in shades of lavender and gold, she stepped onto the porch with a basket of freshly baked bread. Her eyes immediately found the garden. And nearly dropped the basket. He was still there. Exactly where she had left him. Face-down in the mud. Motionless. "..." A breeze rustled through the roses. The stranger did not move. Lilith frowned. "Is he dead?" She stood frozen for a moment. Then another. "...That would be inconvenient." Not tragic. Not heartbreaking. Just inconvenient. The village guards would ask questions. People would gossip. Someone would inevitably trample her roses. With a dramatic sigh, she marched back toward the garden. "Fine." The word escaped her lips like a declaration of war. "Just this once." The first thing he felt was the cold. The second was fury. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Mud. He was lying in mud. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Someone was going to die. Pushing himself upright, he pressed a hand against his temple as memories surfaced in fragments. The banquet. The wine. The endless parade of smiling nobles. Then darkness. Drugged. Not attacked. Not defeated. Drugged. The humiliation of it settled heavily in his chest. Dark eyes swept across his surroundings. A garden. Rows upon rows of roses stretched before him, their petals glowing beneath the late afternoon sun. Stone paths wound through carefully tended flowerbeds while climbing vines wrapped themselves around wooden trellises. The garden was enormous. Far too large for the modest cottage standing at its center. The cottage itself looked ordinary enough. White walls. A thatched roof. Small windows framed by flowering vines. How he had managed to stumble all the way here while half-conscious was beyond him. He rose to his feet and brushed dirt from his coat. His head still pounded. He needed to return. The palace hosting the royal banquet stood far to the north, miles away from the capital. A magnificent fortress carved into the mountains, surrounded by forests and cliffs. He and his third brother had arrived three days ago. Officially, they were there to strengthen ties between kingdoms. Unofficially... Marriage. His expression darkened. The king of the northern territory had several daughters. Rumors had circulated for months. A marriage alliance. His father had insisted he attend. He had refused. Repeatedly. Perhaps the old man had finally grown tired of hearing no. Perhaps he had already chosen him as the sacrificial lamb. His eyes narrowed. And now this. Drugged like some unsuspecting fool. The sheer audacity. Who dared? The northern king? One of the princesses? A rival noble house? Whoever it was had just declared war. His thoughts paused as he approached the cottage. The door stood slightly open. Silence greeted him. Slowly, he stepped inside. No one. The cottage was empty. His gaze swept across the room. A small table. Fresh flowers arranged in a vase. Embroidery resting beside a chair. Books stacked neatly on a shelf. A basket containing colorful ribbons. His eyes lingered. Then lowered. A pair of delicate shoes sat near the door. Not a soldier's. Not a farmer's. Too small. Too elegant. His gaze moved to a half-finished dress draped over a chair. Someone lived here. A woman. Or perhaps a young lady. His brows drew together. The image of large eyes staring down at him flickered briefly through his mind. Had the owner found him? If so, why leave him there? Most people would have dragged him inside. Called for help. Panicked. Yet whoever lived here had apparently looked at an unconscious stranger in her garden and decided he wasn't worth the trouble. For reasons he could not explain, that realization irritated him more than being drugged. He stared at the empty cottage. Then at the roses outside. Whoever lived here was either extraordinarily foolish... Or completely uninterested in who he was. And somehow, he found the second possibility far more offensive. Not everyone in the empire recognized him on sight. That fact alone was enough to keep his irritation from becoming genuine concern. Still. His gaze drifted toward the garden once more. The mud beneath the roses had not hidden everything. There were footprints. Small ones. Clearly visible beside the spot where he had awakened. Someone had found him. Someone had stood there long enough to inspect him. Then left. His jaw tightened. Whoever it was had looked upon an unconscious stranger and simply walked away. The thought should not have bothered him. Yet it did. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes as he lowered himself into a chair. The drug had long worn off, but its effects lingered. His limbs felt heavy. His head remained clouded. Whoever administered it had known exactly what they were doing. A simple sleeping agent would not have been enough to separate him from his guards and leave him wandering half-conscious through the countryside. This had been planned. Carefully. Deliberately. His fingers tapped against the wooden table. Someone at the banquet. Someone he had spoken to. Someone who had smiled while slipping poison into his cup. The thought darkened his expression. Outside, the evening breeze carried the scent of roses through the open window. A ridiculous scent. Far too sweet. Far too peaceful. Nothing about today had been peaceful. The banquet had already been a disaster before the drugging. Every conversation had somehow returned to marriage. Marriage. As though saying the word enough times would suddenly change his mind. His father had become increasingly persistent these past months. The old man wanted alliances. He wanted grandchildren. Most importantly, he wanted obedience. Three things he was unlikely to receive. A bitter laugh escaped him. Perhaps his father had finally chosen for him. Perhaps that was the purpose of the banquet. A northern princess. A suitable bride. A political contract wrapped in silk and jewels. His eyes narrowed. If so, someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure his cooperation. Unfortunately for them, drugging him was an excellent way to achieve the opposite. A floorboard creaked beneath his boot as he stood. The cottage was still empty. No sign of its owner. No sign that anyone intended to return soon. Yet the flowers were fresh. The fireplace had been cleaned recently. A half-finished basket sat near the window. Someone would return. Eventually. His gaze drifted to the doorway. And for reasons he could not explain, he found himself wanting to know who. Not because they had saved him. They hadn't. Not because they had helped him. They hadn't done that either. No. He wanted to know who possessed the audacity to find an unconscious man in their garden... And leave him lying in the mud.