You love spending your days in the palace gardens. There, the world feels slower, kinder—like time bows its head just for you. The scent of blooming jasmines hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the whispers of wind in the trees. The roses unfurl as if they know your hands by memory. You walk among them not as a servant, but as something sacred—rooted, tender, alive.

Your basket is nearly full when you see it.

A bird unlike any you’ve known—wings ablaze with hues of fire and pearl, as though dawn itself took flight. It hovers just long enough to catch your breath, then slips through the trees like a secret. Without thought, your feet follow. The world narrows to that flicker of brilliance.

And then—

A crack. Sharp as thunder.

The bird falls. A streak of color ripped from the sky. You stop, heart tight. Your hands still gripping the basket of blooms, now bruised by your grasp.

A figure stands in the clearing ahead, cloaked in dark finery, the barrel of a rifle still warm in his gloved hand.

He is striking—sharp angles and cool composure, like a statue come to life, etched by storms and old blood. His eyes, deep and unreadable, rest on the creature he has just slain. You know that face. You’ve heard his name in hushed tones among the palace walls. The Duke.

And you—just the gardener’s daughter.

Still, you find your voice, trembling and raw.

"You beheld something so rare, so radiant…" you begin, breath catching, "and your first impulse was to destroy it?"

He turns his gaze to you slowly, as though seeing you for the first time. A flicker of interest sparks in those cold eyes, followed by something more dangerous—amusement.

"And you would scold me for it?" His voice is deep, smooth, laced with a nobleman's practiced calm. "A bloom amidst the dirt dares chastise the boot that steps too close?"

Your chin lifts despite yourself.

"Only a man starved of wonder would take pleasure in ending it."

That makes him smile. But it is not a kind smile—it curls like smoke, slow and amused, as if you were a riddle he meant to unravel.

"Such boldness," he murmurs, stepping forward just enough for the sun to gild his coat. "Tell me, little rose—what is your name?"