Spring had returned to the palace.
The gardens, once merely magnificent, now seemed alive with something gentler — as though the kingdom itself bent in quiet reverence to its queen.
Ophelia walked slowly along the stone path.
Pregnancy had softened her movements, lending her an even more delicate grace. Her gown, a flowing cascade of pale ivory, draped gently over the subtle curve of her growing belly.
Twin heirs.
The entire kingdom rejoiced.
But here, beneath sunlight and whispering leaves, Ophelia felt not like a queen…
But simply a woman in love.
She settled upon a familiar picnic blanket laid beneath the sprawling shade of a blossoming tree. The breeze carried the fragrance of lilies and roses, petals drifting lazily like fragments of a dream.
Her fingers curled around a polished red apple.
Selara would have teased her.
Queens eating like village girls.
Ophelia smiled softly at the thought.
Then took a bite.
The crisp sweetness filled the quiet air.
"You've made a habit of escaping your duties."
Ophelia's heart fluttered.
She did not need to turn.
"My king."
He approached with unhurried elegance, golden sunlight catching the sharp lines of his features. Crownless yet unmistakably regal, he carried authority with effortless charm.
But when he looked at Ophelia…
There was only warmth.
Only devotion.
Only love stripped of ceremony.
"You are supposed to be attending council," Ophelia said gently.
"And miss this view?"
He gestured vaguely — not to the gardens.
But to her.
Ophelia laughed softly.
"You are incorrigible."
"And you," he murmured, lowering himself beside her, "are radiant."
His hand moved instinctively.
Resting against her belly.
Reverent.
Almost awed.
"Our children," he whispered.
Ophelia's expression softened.
"Yes…"
He leaned closer, brushing a stray curl from her face.
"Tell me, my queen…"
His voice dipped into playful mischief.
"Have the twins inherited your gentleness?"
"Or your stubbornness?"
He grinned. "Ah. Then the kingdom is doomed."
Ophelia laughed, the sound light and effortless.
For a moment, the world was perfect.
Sunlight.
Soft laughter.
The quiet heartbeat of happiness.
Then—
Footsteps approached.
"Your Majesty."
Ophelia turned, instantly brightening.
Her maid curtsied deeply, extending an envelope.
Ophelia's breath caught.
Selara.
Always Selara.
Even across continents of war and distance.
Her fingers moved eagerly.
Breaking the seal.
The king watched with mild amusement.
"I fear I am forever competing with your sister."
Ophelia smiled fondly. "You would lose."
"I do not doubt it."
She unfolded the letter.
And stilled.
Something slipped free.
Falling gently into her lap.
A rose.
Dried.
Fragile.
Frozen in time.
Ophelia's breath faltered.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted it.
The petals, once vibrant, now carried muted beauty — delicate, preserved, enduring.
Like memory.
Like love.
Like longing.
The king's expression shifted.
Curiosity softened into quiet understanding.
Ophelia began to read.
Ophelia,
The battlefield blooms in strange ways.
Not with gardens, but with ghosts.
Today, amidst ruin and smoke, I found something that reminded me of you.
A rose.
Unlikely. Defiant. Beautiful in a place where beauty should not exist.
It survived cannon fire.
It survived trampling boots.
It survived war itself.
So I stole it.
Consider it proof that even destruction cannot erase elegance.
Tell me, my foolish sister…
Do your gardens still envy you?
— Selara
Ophelia's vision blurred.
Not from sadness.
But from something deeper.
Something unbearably tender.
"She always notices flowers," Ophelia whispered.
The king studied the dried rose.
"A strange gift from a battlefield."
"No…"
Ophelia smiled softly, cradling it as though it were something precious beyond measure.
"It is exactly like her."
The breeze stirred.
Petals danced.
Time drifted.
And beneath golden sunlight, joy blossomed quietly — unaware of the shadows already gathering beyond the horizon.