Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen: Lone Petal

Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen: Lone Petal

“The moons are never wrong. Only our hearts are.”

The tea was already cooling when the King finally spoke.

They sat tucked under the moon pavilion’s overhanging roof. A place spun from pale wood and silver vines, all woven together like a spell somebody started centuries ago. Those vines had been coaxed for ages to twist into arches, and today, jackpot: moonflowers everywhere. Ivory-petaled, sweet-scented, fluttering open in the filtered sunlight as though the magic of the festival had moved them.

Breeze suddenly drifted past, brushing against the porcelain teacups set on the lacquered table. A lone petal spiraled down and landed in the King’s cup. He didn’t move or try to get it out.

“They say the moons will touch at their highest point tonight,” he murmured.

On the opposite side, Grandma held her cup in her hands, and seemed to talk to it, as though it could speak to her so long as she listened to it.

“And yet,” the King continued, his voice sounding as dry as stone found in a dessert, “he’s not shown his face in twenty years.”

Grandma sipped slowly. “He’s not the type to knock.”

The King turned to look across the pavilion to the garden, trim and perfect in its center, but wild its borders. There were lantern vines already being: strung between columns by servants in ceremonial blue, and wind-chimes tuned to lunar harmonics, were whispering faintly as they caught the breeze.

“He won’t dare,” came a softer voice, firm with disdain.

The Queen had arrived, with the trail of cold spice and cedar. On her was thrown ceremonial robes, half-dead gold, painted in the family crest of the royal line, the silver hawk soaring above twin moons. She stirred as silk-wrapped steel, keen behind her silence. She's a bitter woman, so of course she'd look like one.

“Not after what he did,” she added, settling beside the King.

No name was spoken. None needed.

The King glanced down at his hands. He had not worn rings in years, but the pale band of skin where his signet used to rest still lingered like a scar.

“He was always drawn to fire,” he said at last. “Even as a child.”

Grandma set her cup down with a quiet clink. “The moons will not hide what’s been kept in shadow.”

The Queen scoffed faintly but said nothing more. Her eyes followed a servant entering with a second tray of tea. The young man’s hands trembled slightly as he poured. Grandma’s gaze flicked to him, not harsh, but assessing, and the servant almost dropped the pot before bowing and hurrying off.

“There’s unease in the halls,” Grandma said softly. “The walls carry whispers. The hearths grow colder, even when the fires are stoked.”

The King didn’t respond.

Instead, he reached for his cup, ignoring the petal still floating inside, and took a long, bitter sip.

“The last time the moons touched fully,” he said, “I lost three generals, a cousin, and nearly the northern province. And you lost your beloved.”

The words cut, but Grandma only folded her hands in her lap, her thumb brushing against an ancient ring, iron-thin, shaped like twined thorns, older than any crown worn in the current dynasty.

“He knew what the prophecy meant,” Grandma murmured. “Even if none of us did.”

“Don’t,” the King said tightly. “Don’t bring riddles to my table. I prefer facts.”

Grandma tilted her head. “Then tonight will be difficult for you.”

They fell into silence.

Beyond the pavilion, the garden’s shadows lengthened as the day inched toward dusk. The scent of incense and baked sweetfruit from the lower courtyards began to drift into the air. In the distance, faint music, drums, flutes, and the rhythmic thrum of dancing feet, rolled up from the city.

The Queen stood first. She had no interest in omens. “I’ll oversee the lantern preparations. Let me know when you’re ready to greet the envoys.”

When she was gone, the King remained still. His eyes were fixed on the far eastern tower where the night’s ceremonies would begin, its spire glinting like a needle poised above the kingdom.

He spoke without looking at grandma.

“Do you think he’ll show up?”

Grandma didn’t answer immediately.

She reached for the tea again, the ring on her thumb catching the sun as she lifted the cup. She took a long, thoughtful sip, then finally said:

“He’s never been one to miss power, especially when it’s offered on a silver platter.”

The King exhaled, not quite a sigh, but close.

“I see him sometimes… in my dreams,” he said. “He hasn’t aged. As elegant as ever. Always in shadow.”

“Perhaps he never left,” Grandma whispered.

Another silence fell.

The King sat very still, trying to feel his pulse through the porcelain cup in his hand.

Then, as the sky began its first blush of twilight, Grandma turned to him, her voice low, her gaze sharp enough to cut silk.

“What will you do,” she asked, “if the prophecy names your sons?”

The breeze stilled.

The garden seemed to hush.

And the King… did not answer because he didn't have an answer.

The silence between them lengthened, stretching like a taut thread waiting to snap. Grandma didn’t press. Her thumb grazed the curve of her porcelain teacup as if the warmth there might offer her a different answer.

Then, gently, she pivoted.
“I visited Casian’s wife.”

The King stirred, mildly surprised. “Did you?”

“She’s recovering well,” Grandma said, her voice carrying no judgment, only observation. “There was tightness in her gaze, but that’s to be expected after childbirth. I asked to see the child.”

There's a pause. The King arched a brow but said nothing.

Grandma placed her cup down with a soft click against the saucer. “She hesitated.”

That caught his attention.

“She allowed me in, eventually,” Grandma continued, looking out at the lanterns being strung in the distance, fluttering like cautious hope. “The child is small but strong, I think. Healthy lungs.” She turned slightly toward him. “A girl.”

The King gave her a questioning gaze.

“She called her Hazel,” Grandma added softly. “A beautiful name.”

“I thought… Casian announced it was a boy?” the King said at last.

“He did.” Grandma’s voice was smooth, and unbothered. “And his wife nodded right along with him, like it was the most natural truth in the world. Casian told the royal court and even you, his father, that his wife birthed a young Prince, he called the child Nathan, but his wife called the child Hazel in private.”

The King exhaled, leaning back. “Why would they lie about something so basic?”

“That’s what I asked myself.” She reached once more for her tea, but didn’t drink it. “Why go through the trouble of deceiving even the royal family about the gender of your child? What does a girl threaten? Or perhaps… what does a boy protect?”

A quiet fell between them again.

“A child is a child,” the King muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Not in royal bloodlines,” Grandma said. “Not in families like ours.”

He looked at her sharply. “You think there’s more to this.”

“I think Casian has been nervous lately. And his wife looks like she’s carrying secrets” She sipped slowly. “They’re hiding something. And this lie — this small, deliberate lie — is only the first stone in a wall they’re building.”

The King’s jaw flexed. “Do you think the child is not his?”

“No,” she said with eerie certainty. “The child is his. The resemblance is too clear. She has his mouth.” Then her eyes darkened. “But the lie wasn’t made to cover a scandal. It was made to protect position.”

“Why?.”

Grandma’s gaze landed on him, steady and knowing. “A son is a shield. A son stands in line. A daughter… complicates succession.”

The King looked away, jaw tight. “Casian has never been ambitious.”

“Fear makes the meek dangerous,” Grandma said quietly. “But did you say he's never been ambitious? What do you think fuels the rivalry between him and Alarion? It's not a silly rivalry between two brothers, it's Casian seeking for what Alarion owns”

They sat in silence, listening to the wind.

Then, in a voice soft but firm, she added, “If your brother returns tonight, and if the prophecy speaks as I think it will, then lies like these will feel like pebbles before the avalanche.”

The King’s fingers drummed softly against the wood of the table.

“Maybe,” he said, not looking at her. “Or maybe everyone is just tired of fate being so inconsiderate.”

But Grandma only smiled. “Fate doesn’t care whether we’re tired. It comes anyway.”