The rose garden of Esmerea's east wing was a wonder whispered about but rarely seen. Hidden behind a wrought-iron gate gilded in silver filigree, it opened into a secluded courtyard filled with a symphony of colors—blush pinks, ghostly whites, amber golds, and violets deep as twilight. Trellises heavy with blooming vines arched over marble pathways, and petals fluttered down like soft confetti with every passing breeze.
But the most striking rose of all was red. Not just any red—but the kind found in wounds. The kind found in spilled secrets and silken death. It bloomed in clusters near the heart of the garden, where the sun lingered longest. Its color was so vivid, so visceral, that even the bees avoided it.
There were no birds in this garden. No laughter. Only the crisp snip of silver shears and the faint rustle of silk.
