The Fae Gardens are not what I remember.
They were never mine to remember, not truly. As a child, I only glimpsed them from the palace balconies—silver-barked willows swaying in the wind, their leaves shimmering like moonlight, paths of crushed quartz winding between beds of night-blooming jasmine and blood-red roses that only opened under a full moon. It was a place of beauty. Of secrets. Of forbidden things.
Now, it’s a ruin.
The silver trees are blackened, their bark cracked and peeling, their leaves fallen like ash. The roses are withered, thorns bare, petals scattered across the path like bones. The air is thick with the scent of decay and old magic, laced with something darker—memory, grief, the quiet hum of a power that refuses to die.
And at the center—
The willow.
The largest of them all, its trunk wide as a house, its branches sweeping the ground like a veil. It stands untouched. Unburned. Waiting.
“This is where they were,” I whisper, stepping forward, my bare feet whispering against the cracked stone. “Where she loved him. Where she chose to die.”
Cassian walks beside me, silent, watchful, his hand still in mine. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer comfort. Just lets me feel it—the weight of the past, the echo of her voice, the ghost of a love so fierce it defied death.
“She knew,” I say, stopping beneath the willow’s canopy. “She knew they’d kill her. And she did it anyway.”
“Because love is not a crime,” he murmurs. “Even if the world calls it treason.”
I press my palm to the trunk—cold, smooth, alive. The sigils on my skin flare, golden light bleeding into the bark, spreading like roots through the wood. And then—
Memory.
Not mine.
Not his.
Something older.
The garden dissolves—stone melting into shadow, light bending into dream. And I’m not in the ruins anymore.
I’m in the past.
Before the fire.
Before the blood.
Before the lies.
The willow is whole. Its leaves shimmer like liquid silver. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine and old magic. And there, beneath its largest branch, is my mother.
Queen Lysara.
Not as I’ve seen her in visions—broken, burning, screaming.
But as she was.
Alive.
Laughing.
Her golden hair loose, her storm-gray eyes bright, her hand in another’s—
Malrik.
Not the cold, calculating lord. Not the murderer. But a man. Younger. Softer. Human in a way I’ve never seen. He’s smiling—really smiling—and his thumb brushes her cheek, his voice low, tender.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You can run. I’ll help you. We can disappear.”
“And leave my people?” she asks, voice sharp. “Leave my daughter? No. I made my choice. I love him. I won’t hide it.”
“Then they’ll kill you.”
“Then let them.” She presses her forehead to his. “But promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Protect her. If I die. If they come for her. You keep her safe. You hide her. You make them think she’s dead.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls her into his arms, holding her like he’ll never let go.
And then—
The dream shatters.
I gasp—jolting back into the present, my heart hammering, my breath ragged. Cassian is at my side in an instant, his hands on my arms, his voice urgent.
“Vivienne—”
“He loved her,” I whisper. “Malrik loved her.”
“I know.”
“And she loved him.” I press a hand to my mouth, tears burning my eyes. “She didn’t betray the throne. She defied it. For love. And they killed her for it.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just watches me—really watches—with something fierce, something primal in his gaze. “And you?”
“I spent my life hating you.” My voice breaks. “Planning your downfall. And all this time—”
“You were hunting the wrong enemy.”
I don’t answer.
Just collapse into his arms, my body trembling, my breath ragging. He holds me—tight, fierce, needing—his hands cradling the back of my head, his fangs grazing my temple, his voice a low murmur against my skin.
“You were never wrong to seek justice,” he says. “You were just aiming at the shadow instead of the hand that cast it.”
“I almost destroyed you,” I whisper. “I almost destroyed us.”
“But you didn’t.” He pulls back, cupping my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “You saved me. Again. And now?”
“Now I make it right.” I press my palm to the sigil flaring across my chest. “I clear your name. I expose Malrik’s lies. And I make sure the world knows the truth.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just presses his forehead to mine. “Then we do it together.”
“Always.”
And then—
Knock.
Not from the door.
From inside.
My magic—still charged from the Claim—flares, sigils burning across my skin. And I feel it. A presence. Close. Familiar.
“Maeve,” I whisper.
“Here,” a voice says from the shadows.
The garden gate creaks open, and she steps inside—silver hair braided, gray robe simple, eyes pale blue and knowing. She doesn’t look at Cassian. Just at me.
“You’ve seen the memory,” she says.
“I have.” I turn to the willow. “And I know the truth.”
She nods. “Good. Then you know what must be done.”
“The throne,” I say quietly. “It’s not taken. It’s given.”
“And only when you are ready to receive it, will it be yours.”
“How?”
She steps forward, pressing a hand to the trunk of the willow. “This tree was planted by the first Fae Queen. It is not just wood and leaf. It is memory. It is truth. And it remembers her. It remembers you.”
“What do I do?”
“You must speak to it.” She turns to me, her voice low. “Not with words. Not with magic. With heart. You must tell it why you’ve come. Not for vengeance. Not for power. For her. For all of them.”
I don’t answer.
Just step forward, pressing my palm flat against the bark. The sigils on my skin flare—golden light bleeding into the wood, spreading like roots through the tree. And then—
Silence.
Not empty. Not still.
Waiting.
I close my eyes.
And I speak.
Not with my voice.
With my soul.
“I came back for her,” I whisper into the tree. “For the mother I never knew. For the woman who defied death for love. I came back to burn the lies. To break the chains. To make sure no child is erased for being born between worlds.”
The bark trembles beneath my palm.
“I was angry,” I continue. “I was broken. I wanted to destroy him. But I found something else. I found truth. I found love. I found us. And I will not let her sacrifice be forgotten. I will not let her love be called treason. I will not let the world believe that purity is power.”
The sigils blaze—golden fire erupting from my skin, spiraling up the trunk, spreading through the branches like lightning. The air hums with power. The ground trembles.
“I am not here to take the throne,” I say, my voice breaking. “I am here to be it. To stand for those who have no voice. To protect those who are called abomination. To love without fear. And if that means I must burn to do it—then let me burn.”
And then—
It happens.
Not pain.
Not magic.
Recognition.
The tree sings—a low, deep hum that rises from the roots, through the trunk, into the branches, filling the garden with a sound like wind through silver leaves. The bark beneath my palm splits—just slightly—and from within, a light emerges.
Golden.
Warm.
Alive.
And in its center—
A seed.
Small. Perfect. Encased in light.
“The Heartseed,” Maeve whispers. “The source of the Fae throne. It only appears to the true heir. The one who does not seek power—but truth.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just watch as the light pulses, as the seed rises, as it floats into my open palm.
And the moment it touches my skin—
The world burns.
Not fire.
Not pain.
Memory.
But not mine.
Not his.
Something older.
The garden dissolves—stone melting into shadow, light bending into dream. And I’m not in the ruins anymore.
I’m in the throne room.
Not as it is now.
But as it was.
Before the fire.
Before the blood.
Before the lies.
The obsidian throne rises like a jagged tooth, its back carved with the sigil of the Fae High Court. The air is thick with the scent of old magic and dried blood. And there, seated upon it—
My mother.
Queen Lysara.
Not broken.
Not burning.
Alive.
Her golden hair loose, her storm-gray eyes sharp, her hand resting on the arm of the throne. And beside her—
Me.
Not as I am now.
But as I was.
A child. No older than five. My hair wild, my eyes wide, my hand in hers. She’s smiling—really smiling—and her thumb brushes my cheek, her voice low, tender.
“You are my heart,” she whispers. “You are my future. And one day, you will return. Not to destroy. Not to burn. To heal.”
“But what if they hurt me?” I ask, voice small.
“Then you will be stronger.” She presses her forehead to mine. “And you will not fight alone. You will have love. Real. True. Unbreakable. And that—” She glances at the man standing in the shadows—Malrik, younger, softer—“—that is the greatest power of all.”
And then—
The dream shatters.
I gasp—jolting back into the present, tears streaming down my face, the Heartseed warm in my palm. Cassian is at my side, his hands on my arms, his voice urgent.
“Vivienne—”
“She knew,” I whisper. “She knew I’d come back. She knew I’d find you. She knew I’d love you.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my neck, breathing me in, his body warm against mine. The bond hums—low, steady, alive—golden light flickering across our skin.
“You’re ready,” Maeve says, stepping forward. “The throne will accept you. But it will not be easy. Seraphine will not let go. The old laws will not die quietly. And the world will not believe—until you make them.”
“Then I’ll make them,” I say, lifting my head, the Heartseed glowing in my palm. “Not with magic. Not with blood. With truth.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just presses her hand to my chest, where the sigils flare beneath her touch. “Then go. And when you stand before them, remember this: you are not just heir. You are not just Claimed. You are truth. And truth cannot be silenced.”
I don’t answer.
Just pull Cassian into my arms, pressing my forehead to his. “Together.”
“Always.”
Outside, the city sleeps.
Inside, the bond burns.
And somewhere in the shadows, Seraphine watches.
And for the first time—
She fears.