Chapter 13 – A Letter That Shouldn't Exist
The world had changed again overnight.
Caelum felt it before he opened his eyes—an ache in the air, not like pain, but like pressure. The kind of heaviness that settles into the bones when something's coming. Something inevitable.
He sat up slowly in the soft bed of the East Wing chamber, rubbing his temples as rays of pale gold morning light filtered through the curtain. Outside the tall windows, birds were already in motion, fluttering from garden to tree, as if unaware that the weight of seven kingdoms was gradually pulling him into their core.
He blinked once, twice.
And then saw it.
A sealed letter lying on the windowsill.
It hadn't been there the night before.
He was sure of it.
There was no wind, and the glass was still latched. No sound, no movement. Just… the letter. Resting there, almost politely.
He rose slowly, the wooden floor cool beneath his bare feet, and walked to the sill. The envelope was sealed with wax—not royal, not noble, not even familiar.
Just plain black.
His name was written across it.
Caelum.
Not Sir Caelum, not Lord Caelum, not Beloved of the Kingdoms.
Just… his name.
Personal. Quiet. Intimate in a way that chilled him more than any royal demand.
He broke the seal.
The parchment inside was crisp. Thick. The handwriting precise.
"If you are reading this, the fifth petal has already fallen.Do not speak of this letter to anyone.You are being followed."
"Tonight, in the orchard. Midnight. Come alone."
That was all.
No name. No symbol.
No lie either.
He stared at the paper for a long moment, then folded it back into its envelope and slid it into his coat pocket.
He didn't have time to react before the knock came at his chamber door.
Ardyn.
He opened it without a word, and she stepped in, already dressed in a sharp grey military jacket and boots. Her hair was pinned, and her expression was more clipped than usual.
"Two things," she said quickly. "First, you're expected at the Grand Ballroom in one hour. Seraphine's delegation is hosting a formal apology dinner."
"Apology?" Caelum asked.
"Public cover," she muttered. "For her warning last night. The other courts are starting to notice her… attention toward you."
Caelum didn't flinch. "And the second thing?"
She hesitated.
"…A letter arrived. Official. From House Vorlen."
He froze. Vorlen was Greed. Princess Maribelle's court.
"They've invited you for an official audience in three days. Not as a guest. As a claimant."
He blinked. "Claimant?"
Ardyn handed him the scroll. "To the House of Gold. The King has named you an 'Asset of National Worth.' That means they're considering marriage negotiations."
Caelum stared at her.
"But I haven't even—"
"I know," she said tightly. "That's why it's dangerous. You haven't done anything. Which means they're moving early."
He folded the scroll slowly.
The fifth petal hadn't even fallen.
But the walls were already tightening.
"Dress for the dinner," Ardyn said. "And smile. Everyone's watching."
The Grand Ballroom was nothing short of theatrical.
Caelum descended the staircase into a sea of color, silk, and shifting alliances. Lords and ladies lined the marble floors, court musicians strumming softly in the background. The air smelled of crushed roses and spiced wine.
And there she stood.
Princess Seraphine of Envy.
Dressed in dark emerald and midnight, her back straight, her gaze distant. Around her, her court shimmered in subtle luxury—nothing too showy, yet everything precise.
He stepped into view, and her eyes snapped to him like a blade drawn from silk.
But she didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just watched.
He joined the royal table as instructed. Rhiannon was absent—away on border patrol. Lira hadn't shown either. But Selene sat two seats down, cold and composed, her expression unreadable. Maribelle was present, speaking with a minister, her voice honey-slick.
Elira winked at him from across the room.
Vianne waved enthusiastically, nearly knocking over her drink.
He smiled faintly.
The night passed in words.
In stolen glances.
In unspoken threats layered under etiquette.
But all Caelum could think about was the letter burning in his coat pocket.
Midnight. Orchard. Come alone.
He waited until the halls were quiet.
Slipped through the servant path behind the kitchens.
Avoided the guards by ducking into an abandoned reading room.
And then he was in the outer gardens.
The orchard sat behind the second tier of hedges, where the lanterns didn't quite reach. The moon was full above, casting a silver veil across the apples and plums swaying gently in the night breeze.
He entered between the trees.
Waited.
Nothing.
Only the sound of rustling leaves and distant crickets.
He exhaled, starting to doubt—when he heard the voice.
"I thought you might ignore it."
He turned.
A figure stepped out from behind a tree.
Cloaked. Hooded. But unmistakable.
Lira.
He narrowed his eyes. "You told me you didn't send the fourth petal."
"I didn't," she said softly.
She removed her hood.
And Caelum's breath caught.
Because she wasn't alone.
Another girl stepped out beside her.
Younger. Narrower shoulders. Long silver hair.
Eyes like frostbitten mirrors.
She looked exactly like Lira.
But her face was twisted in a crooked smile.
"Hello, brother," the girl said.
His blood ran cold.
Lira stepped back, and the girl moved forward.
She wasn't smiling anymore.
"I've come to collect what you owe."
He stumbled back.
"Who are you?"
But the girl tilted her head.
"I'm the fifth."
The air grew colder. The trees around them seemed to lean away.
The girl stepped closer.
And in her hand was a petal.
Deep blue.
Glowing faintly.
Dripping something dark at the edges.
"You thought this would be romantic," she said softly. "A dance. A game. Petals and royalty. But you're not their prize, Caelum."
She held out the petal.
"You're their replacement."
Caelum didn't move.
His breath was shallow.
She placed the petal in his palm.
It burned cold.
Lira flinched as if hurt.
The fifth petal settled against his skin.
And a memory not his own stabbed into his mind.
A throne.
A circle of girls crying.
A blade in his chest.
His voice whispering, "Forgive me."
Then nothing.
He gasped.
The girl stepped back into the shadows.
Lira reached for his hand, steadying him.
"I didn't want this," she said. "But you needed to see her."
"Who is she?" Caelum asked.
Lira didn't answer.
Just whispered:
"She's not a princess."
When he returned to the estate, dawn was beginning to rise.
The fifth petal was already turning gray.
And this time, he didn't place it on the mantle.
He kept it.
Close.
Because now he knew—this wasn't just about love.
It was about survival.
And the petals weren't gifts.
They were warnings.