Page 25 of Lost Moon

“Cael?” she whispers, unsure how else to begin.

He nods, his gaze resting on hers. His quiet evaluation carries no threat or reason for fear. His expression is entirely calm.

A powerful urge arises within her chest to confess everything, from her innate love of greenery to her secret dream of tending a living garden of her own. Though, her old hesitation wins out, driven entirely by the fear of becoming a burden with her spoken words.

A sudden movement beside her draws her attention. Reaching into the inner fold of his heavy black tunic, Cael draws out a slender leather booklet kept specifically for moments exactly like this one. The faint, rhythmic scratch of a silver quill against the parchment cuts through the night air.

Cael then holds out the small notebook toward her, his storm-grey eyes locking onto hers as he offers the page. A single question is written carefully across the paper in his clean, looping script.

Do you like them?

His handwriting is beautiful, cursive and neat. Elara stares at the looping script, a wave of hesitation paralyzing her tongue. Her fingers tremble as she reaches out, taking the leather booklet from his hand, her skin brushing against his callused fingers for a breathless second. The physical contact sends a tremor of nervous energy through her core, forcing her hand away.

Back in Veyrenn, expressing a personal desire or a soft passion was a dangerous vulnerability, a weakness her father would instantly weaponize to mock her. She worries that if she reveals too much, Cael will view her as a foolish, self-indulgent girl who cares for trivial things. Fighting past the instinct to shut down, she forces a soft breath past her lips.

She glances once more at the pink poppies before lifting her gaze. “I love them. I love flowers, and how they bloom, how natural they are.” Her voice falters as she realizes she has said more than he asked. Cael does not interrupt. He only watches her, listening with attentiveness. A soft pink flush rises across her cheeks. “One day, I wish to grow my own garden and call it mine.”

Cael writes again, his silver quill moving with careful slowness before he turns the notebook toward her.

What are your favorite flowers?

“I really love roses and pink poppies,” Elara replies after a pause. “Roses, because they were my mother’s favorite. Pink poppies simply remind me of her.” Her fingers brush lightly over the petals once more, tracing their fragile edges.

“She used to say flowers remember kindness,” Elara continues. “That they bloom best when they are treated gently, and given time.”

A heavy, suffocating panic suddenly tightens her chest the moment the words leave her mouth. She freezes, her fingertips digging into the green silk of her skirt as she fiercely regrets the admission. She has never spoken of her mother’s private wisdom to anyone but Walker, and exposing such a fragile memory to a stranger feels entirely reckless. She braces herself for a dismissive shrug, expecting him to view her sentimentality as a burden.

When she lifts her gaze, Cael is watching her. Declining to reach for the notebook at once, he stands there to listen as though her words possess genuine weight. The absence of judgment in his grey eyes catches her completely off guard, melting the rigid tension in her shoulders until a sensation of safety settles over her nerves.

“And yours?” Elara asks. “What are your favorite flowers?”

Freezing in place, Cael widens his eyes as a sudden warmth rises to his cheeks, coloring the tips of his ears and nose. A visible restlessness overtakes him, driven by the simple fact that she seeks to learn something personal about his life. Observing the subtle shift, Elara hesitates as a flicker of concern crosses her face.

Wondering if the cold has reached him again, she watches as he reaches for the pen once more, his movement hesitant as his thumb presses hard enough against the metal that his knuckles whiten. Turning it again, showing his written words.

White lilies and pink poppies.

Elara’s eyes widen at their love for the same flower. A smile reaches her lips before she can contain it. “We like the same flower. I have never heard of white lilies before.”

Turning his head, Cael searches the distant edge of the path before walking toward a withered bush of white, brittle stems. He points down at the frost-bitten greenery. Driven by curiosity, Elara rises, adjusting her green silk dress before stepping forward to stand beside him. Her eyes trace the remains of several large white lily blossoms, their six elegant, flared petals now drooping and turned to a dark brown against the cold dirt. The central yellow pistils and thin stamens are dusted with frost, the reddish-brown pollen washed away by the winter breeze.

“These were white lilies?” Elara asks, her voice lowering as sorrow touches her frame. She extends her hand, her finger hovering over a brittle, ruined petal without touching it, fearing it might crumble. “They must have been beautiful.”

Cael shifts his posture beside her, his gaze moving elsewhere. Following his look, Elara notices a neighboring bush filled with dormant light pink peonies that she had not spotted earlier under the grey sky. Their petals are tightly locked away, surviving beneath the freezing air. A soft gasp escapes her as she approaches them. “I have not seen these flowers in so long,” she says, speaking more to Cael than to herself. “Though I had forgotten their name.”

Cael steps closer to her side, his gaze tracking the way her fingers trace the delicate layers of the blossoms. Lifting his booklet once more, his silver quill glides across the paper before he angles the page toward her. A single word rests in the center of the ink.

Peonies.

A wave of recognition washes over her as she reads the script, the name instantly unlocking a deeper flood of childhood memories. “Peonies,” she repeats, the word tasting familiar and comforting on her tongue. “Yes, that is it. Thank you.”

Before the moment can extend, a woman with her golden hair tied messily rushes forward, wearing the tightly fitted black and polished silver uniform of a Riverath guard. “Your Highness, your father has been calling for you.”

Cael lowers his gaze, the booklet remaining blank as the garden suddenly feels smaller around them. Turning to follow the messenger without a backward glance, his rapid departure leaves her chest tightening with a familiar ache. Drawing in a steady breath, she redirects her attention to the dark blooms before her eyes drop to the gravel.

Looking down at the gravel path, Elara catches sight of Cael’s notebook and quill. The items must have fallen from his pocket when he shoved them into his coat so hastily. She kneels to pick them up, attempting to call out for him, but he is already far out of sight. Pressing his belongings protectively against her chest, she makes her way inside the palace the second she feels the winter breeze grow stronger against her bare arms and calves.

Clutching the booklet against her chest, she wanders through the upper corridor, her eyes scanning the corners of the gallery for his broad frame. She hopes to return his belongings immediately, refusing to leave them scattered where the palace servants might disturb his privacy. The stone hallways remain vacant, the silence offering no clue as to where he has retreated.