The glass solarium overlooking the west wing of Floravere Palace was a quiet corner reserved for private conversations disguised as pleasantries. Today, it held the low hum of porcelain against silver, the soft clink of sugar cubes melting into rosewater tea, and two sharply observant minds seated across from each other.
Lady Marienne, adorned in a gown of soft sapphire silk, stirred her cup lazily, her eyes the color of honeyed bronze fixed on her companion. Across from her, Lord Axellan, ever crisp in beige and bronze, sat with the elegance of a seasoned diplomat—one who knew words could wound just as cleanly as swords.
"Thank you for accepting my invitation," Marienne said, voice sweet with practiced courtliness.
"A midday tea with the kingdom's most discerning lady?" Axellan offered a polite smile. "I'd be a fool to decline."
They sipped in silence for a moment, sunlight streaming through the floral glass above them, casting petal-shaped shadows across the white tablecloth.
Then:
"Tell me," Marienne said lightly, setting her cup down, "how is our dear prince faring after the ball?"
Axellan's hand paused mid-pour. A small smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You mean Lucien."
"I do."
"As well as anyone might be when watching someone they once loved find peace without them."
Marienne leaned forward just slightly.
"Is that what you think she's found—peace?"
"Isn't it obvious?" he replied. "She doesn't tremble anymore."
Her fingers tightened around her cup.
"And he's not the reason?"
Axellan exhaled slowly, setting the teapot aside. "Lucien is… haunted. But not beyond hope."
"Hope?" she echoed, voice silkier now, laced with something sharper. "He broke her, Axellan. Not with fists, but with words. With silence. With fear. Do you call that hope?"
"I call it grief," Axellan said softly. "And I believe grief, when faced honestly, can change a man."
Marienne's gaze cooled.
"You forget, I've known grief too. It didn't turn me cruel."
Outside the solarium, servants passed with trays of pastries and bouquets of peach blossoms. A pair of ladies paused just behind the hedge to whisper:
"Did you hear?""What?""Prince Lucien hasn't moved on. He was watching her in the gardens.""With him?""With Sir Jarell, yes. Eyes like fire, they said."
The words flitted through the palace like pollen, light and dangerous.
Back inside, Marienne rose, dusting invisible crumbs from her skirt.
"If he tries to twist her heart again, I won't stand idly by. I hope you understand that, Lord Axellan."
Axellan looked up at her—tired, but steady.
"And if he learns to untwist his own?"
Marienne's reply was soft but absolute.
"Then let him stay far away while he does."
She left the solarium in silence, her steps poised, her spine straight.
Outside, the court hummed on—sweet tea, sweet lies, and the scent of unrest growing beneath the cherry trees.