Chapter 16 – Shadows That Speak
The fire crackled between them, each pop and hiss drawing out the silence. Caelum watched Lira, but her eyes stayed on the flames. Her expression was unreadable — neither guarded nor open, just still. Like the calm that comes before a storm.
He shifted slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Is she real?" he asked.
Lira's fingers twitched, clasped in her lap. "That depends on what you mean by 'real.'"
He waited.
"She was born of the same blood as me," Lira said at last. "But not of the same house. A secret daughter. Hidden, then lost."
Caelum's brows drew together. "Why?"
"Because she was born on the wrong day. At the wrong hour. Under the wrong stars."
He didn't speak. Lira went on.
"There are old beliefs in my kingdom. Ones we pretend not to follow anymore. But when a child is born with the mark of eclipse — white hair, storm-gray eyes, and no voice for the first three days — it's considered an omen."
"Of what?"
"Of ruin."
She looked up now, and Caelum saw guilt in her expression. Guilt and something else — regret? Grief?
"She was sent away before I ever knew her name. But I saw her, once. When I was ten. She was watching from the trees."
Caelum felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"You think she's the one leaving the petals?"
"I don't know. I only know she doesn't serve any of the seven kingdoms."
He leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "So she's not a threat politically."
Lira shook her head. "No. But she might be something worse."
They sat in silence, the flames dwindling. Lira finally rose, brushing down her dress. "You'll need rest. The King of Lust arrives tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
She nodded. "And he's bringing Princess Ysolde with him."
Caelum blinked. "The final princess."
Lira paused at the door. "And the most dangerous."
Then she left.
—
The morning came cold and metallic. Rain drizzled in fine threads, misting the palace gates as the procession from Lust's kingdom arrived.
They rode black-plumed horses and wore coats of crimson velvet. The banners of their house—an open rose with dripping thorns—snapped in the wind.
At the front rode a man cloaked in wine-red, his face half-covered by a golden mask. Behind him, in a chariot pulled by white deer, sat Princess Ysolde.
Caelum watched from the steps of the palace, flanked by guards, heart heavy with tension.
The moment Ysolde stepped down, silence rippled through the court.
She was stunning.
Tall and statuesque, with silver-gold hair woven in serpent-like braids, eyes the color of aged honey, and skin so pale it looked carved from pearl.
She did not smile.
She did not speak.
She simply looked at Caelum.
Their eyes locked.
And the world stilled.
A strange weight fell over the crowd. Even the High Queen, seated atop the marble steps beside her advisors, seemed to tense as Ysolde stepped forward. The girl moved like water through silk, every step purposeful and slow, as if the ground itself should be honored by her touch.
Caelum's throat tightened.
It wasn't just her beauty—though it was breathtaking—it was the way her presence rearranged the air around her. Like gravity reorienting itself.
She stopped in front of him.
The rain hissed lightly on the stones.
Then she said, softly, "You don't belong here."
Gasps echoed.
Not out of rudeness, but recognition.
Because it was the exact same thing the shadow-girl had told him.
Caelum didn't flinch. "And yet, here I am."
Ysolde tilted her head slightly. "So you are."
Then she smiled. The first smile. And it was... unreadable.
—
Later that night, Caelum stood alone in the empty ballroom. The candles had all burned low, and moonlight spilled across the polished marble like water.
He held the gray petal in his hand. Still dull. Still lifeless.
But it felt heavier now.
He remembered Lira's warning. Elira's playfulness. Selene's silence. Seraphine's calculation. Maribelle's fire. Vianne's warmth.
And now Ysolde's enigma.
Each princess brought a different light into his life. But the shadow that followed — the secret eighth presence — grew darker too.
He looked at the petal and whispered,
"Which of you is the truth?"
The petal did not answer.
But the air shifted.
Somewhere far above, in a hidden tower, the sixth petal bloomed.
And a pair of eyes opened in the dark.
Watching.
Waiting.
—
The whisper of distant thunder rolled across the land, a soft growl that made the windows hum in their ancient frames. Caelum didn't move. The gray petal still rested in his palm, cool as ash, silent as stone.
He pocketed it and turned to leave the ballroom. But just before he reached the doors, someone spoke from the shadows.
"She's watching you too, you know."
Caelum spun around.
From between two pillars stepped a young servant boy. He wore the uniform of the royal stewards — navy tunic, white gloves — and a golden brooch in the shape of a phoenix, which was strange. That brooch was for the Queen's personal attendants.
Caelum narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The boy gave a small bow. "A witness. Nothing more."
"That doesn't answer my question."
The boy tilted his head. "You're not the only one with questions. The problem is, answers often demand payment. And you, my lord, haven't paid nearly enough."
Caelum stepped closer. "Are you threatening me?"
The boy smiled faintly. "No. Merely reminding you — everything here is a performance. And the curtains are thinning."
Before Caelum could say more, the boy turned and vanished into the next corridor without a sound.
When Caelum followed, the hall was empty.
No footsteps.
No door creak.
Gone.
The next morning brought news.
Not whispered gossip or veiled glances — but an official scroll, sealed in wax and delivered to Caelum's quarters with urgency.
It was an invitation.
From Princess Seraphine.
A private meeting in her wing of the palace. Sunset. Formal attire required.
Caelum turned the scroll over. No additional message. No explanation.
He wasn't surprised. Seraphine was the most elusive of the seven — controlled, brilliant, and dangerous in her stillness. Her glances felt like weapons sharpened over centuries.
He prepared accordingly.
By the time the sun hung low behind violet clouds, casting gold across the palace roofs, Caelum stood at the entrance to Seraphine's tower chambers.
Two guards flanked the doors. Both in green armor, bearing blades curved like serpent teeth.
One of them nodded and opened the door.
Inside, the chamber smelled of ink, metal, and wine.
Seraphine sat behind a carved desk littered with scrolls and diagrams. Several books lay open beside her, some written in languages Caelum didn't recognize.
She did not rise.
She simply looked up and said, "Sit."
He obeyed.
For a while, neither of them spoke. She finished writing something — her handwriting was sharp, beautiful, and terrifying. Each letter looked like it could cut someone.
Then she looked at him properly.
"You've been clever."
"I try."
"But not careful."
Caelum met her eyes. "What did I do now?"
"You've allowed yourself to be seen. Not just noticed. Seen. The portrait in the gallery… the whispers… the petals…" She leaned forward. "Do you know what happens when too many people begin to believe a prophecy?"
"They try to make it real," Caelum said.
Seraphine smiled. Not with her mouth, but her eyes.
"Yes. Or they try to destroy it."
She stood up, walked to the window, and looked out over the palace gardens.
"Do you know why I invited you here?" she asked.
"No."
"Because you're becoming dangerous. Not because of what you are. But because of what people think you are."
She turned. Her silhouette was framed by the fading light.
"I'm not afraid of you, Caelum. But I am afraid of what others will do in your name."
Caelum stood. "Then help me stop them."
She blinked once. Slowly.
"Perhaps I will. Or perhaps I'll test you first."
Before he could respond, she stepped forward and pressed something into his hand.
It was a green petal.
The sixth.
—
That night, Caelum didn't go back to his room.
Instead, he walked the palace gardens alone. Beneath flowering arches and moonlit paths, past whispering fountains and marble benches.
He didn't feel like a boy anymore.
Not even like a man.
He felt like something unfinished. Something caught between design and destiny.
The sixth petal weighed in his coat pocket like a heart that didn't beat.
He thought of Lira's eyes by the fire. Of Vianne's laughter. Of Elira's mischief. Of Selene's sharp silence. Of Maribelle's confidence.
Of Ysolde's words.
"You don't belong here."
And yet… here he was.
—
The next morning, the castle buzzed with panic.
One of the royal guards had been found unconscious in the west tower. Another was missing entirely. Blood on the stones. No sign of struggle. No witnesses.
And painted across the wall in red ink was a symbol:
A rose with one petal missing.
Caelum's chest went cold.
Only he had seen that exact image before — sketched faintly in the margin of the ancient prophecy Rhiannon had shown him.
Only now… it was real.
A message.
A warning.
A signature.
At noon, he was summoned again. Not to the council chamber, but to the Queen's private war room.
This time, she didn't sit behind her desk.
She stood beside a massive table covered in a map of all seven kingdoms.
Her eyes were dark with fury.
"You've brought prophecy into my halls, Caelum," she said.
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"No one ever does," she snapped. "But the weight still lands on your shoulders."
She pointed to the blood-marked tower.
"That was no accident. No prank. Someone is testing us. Or testing you."
He stood straighter. "Then let them test me."
The Queen stared at him.
Then, finally, she nodded.
"You'll attend the Feast of Bonds tomorrow. All seven princesses will be present. And so will every noble from the high families."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You will not speak of prophecy. You will not mention petals. You will smile, and laugh, and pretend to be a boy with a charming face and no opinions."
Caelum said nothing.
"And if you can't manage that…" she continued, "then you are no longer welcome in this palace."
He clenched his fists.
Then bowed.
"As you command."
When he left, the sixth petal burned hotter than ever.
It was time for answers.
Even if they came with scars.
—