Balmount Kingdom
The castle garden of Balmount Kingdom sprawled beneath a golden afternoon sky, a verdant jewel cradled within the fortress's stone embrace. Ancient oaks and weeping willows arched high overhead, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting warm, flickering shadows over the manicured lawns.
Beds of roses and lavender bloomed in soft bursts of color, their perfume mingling with the crisp scent of fresh-cut grass. A marble fountain stood at the garden's heart—its sculpted nymphs worn smooth by time, water cascading in quiet, glimmering arcs. The sound was steady, serene… like the heartbeat of something long at rest.
Tucked beneath a wrought-iron gazebo draped in ivy, a silk-draped canopy fluttered in the breeze, shading a cluster of velvet-cushioned chairs. It was the sort of place noblewomen once gathered to gossip and scheme—but today, only silence lingered, thick with tension.
Queen Morganna sat at a small, ornate table beneath the canopy. Her posture was perfect, poised with years of royal discipline—but there was a tightness in her shoulders. Her golden hair, swept into a high chignon, shimmered like firelight, though a few loose strands framed the sharp angles of her porcelain face.
She lifted her teacup with delicate fingers, but the porcelain trembled slightly before she set it down again with a soft clink. Her deep violet eyes flicked across the table—narrowed, unreadable—as she stared at the man before her.
King Thorn lounged opposite her, one arm slung casually over the chair's back. He wore his confidence like a cloak, effortless and practiced, his black hair swept back with streaks of purple catching the light. His crimson doublet hung open at the collar, exposing just enough skin to scandalize tradition, and his amber eyes gleamed with mischief.
He hadn't touched his tea. The steam drifted lazily upward, curling into the air between them.
He leaned forward slightly, smiling with disarming ease. "So, my dear, how does the tea taste?"
Morganna's expression didn't flicker.
"It's… adequate," she said at last, her voice cool and sharp. "I see you must have asked the Countess for her family's blend."
Thorn's grin only deepened, a spark of pride lighting behind his gaze. He steepled his fingers. "Oh, of course. It's the finest in the kingdom, mind you—and as king, what better way to impress my exquisite wife than with the best?"
His tone was silk, flirtation folded within every word—but beneath it, something more deliberate. A test. A prod.
Morganna turned her head slightly, lips curling just faintly. "Hmph. Not that I care. All this is just a waste of time."
The words came cold, but her voice trembled ever so slightly at the edge—like frost forming on glass that hadn't yet shattered.
Thorn laughed.
A low, warm sound that rolled through the garden like thunderclouds on a sunny day. It filled the gazebo, echoing off ivy-covered iron and laced lace. But beneath the sound was something older. Wearier. Fonder.
"Oh, you're right, my love—utterly frivolous!" he said, spreading his hands in a theatrical show of surrender. "But if it's truly a waste, why are you here, gracing me with your presence?"
His smile was light, charming. But his eyes searched hers—waiting for something he didn't say aloud.
Then, he leaned in.
Not much. Just enough to draw her attention. His voice dipped lower, teasing, velvet-smooth.
But beneath the jest… there was a question. A dare.
Morganna's brow arched, elegant and sharp.
"Doing here? So the queen can't spend quality time with her king?"
The words landed like a challenge—but her gaze flickered. Just for a breath. Her chin lifted, but a shadow passed behind her eyes.
A dangerous glint danced there now. Defensive. Frustrated. Wanting.
Thorn's smile shifted—turned almost boyish. Familiar. Almost too familiar.
"No, no, no—not like that, my love! But you've barely spoken to me since… well, you know."
He leaned further across the table, as though the space between them could somehow be crossed by a whisper.
His voice dropped into something softer. Rougher.
"Since what happened. I know I've been… remiss, and it's been bad on my side."
For once, the charm faltered.
Morganna didn't blink.
Her eyes held his like blades drawn at dusk.
"And what would you mean, 'bad on your side'?" she asked.
The words were precise. Razor-sharp. But her hands had gone still on the tablecloth—delicate fingers curled inward, hidden beneath lace and silk.
Thorn glanced around.
The garden, once distant and peaceful, now felt too quiet.
No footsteps. No rustle of skirts. No chattering ladies or trailing attendants.
Only the hum of bees, the trickle of the fountain, and the ever-growing weight of the moment.
He looked back at her, and this time… he didn't smile.
He leaned in closer—close enough for her to feel the warmth in his breath.
Voice low, threading between flirtation and longing, he whispered, "Well, you know… it's been far too long since we… indulged, my queen."
The words hung in the air like perfume.
Then he added, slower now, more deliberate—
"I've been holding myself back from ravishing you right here, under this canopy."
A pause.
Long enough to let the meaning sink in. Long enough for the silk and lace above them to feel like a veil between two worlds—court and intimacy, duty and desire.
His grin turned wicked.
Morganna's breath caught—just a flutter—but her composure cracked. Her cheeks flushed, her voice rising despite herself.
"How dare you say that when there are pressing issues!"
She slammed her hand on the table. The porcelain rattled.
Thorn didn't flinch. His voice dipped again, quiet, insistent.
"My dear, no need to shout—your king is in no mood for games today." His eyes softened—just a little. "Unless, of course, you're playing hard to get."
Morganna's hands trembled faintly, her fingers curling around the edge of her teacup as if the fragile porcelain could ground her.
Her voice broke—just a touch. Just enough to reveal the tremor underneath her fury.
"No, no, no—not today! And don't think I haven't seen the way you look at the other maids!"
The words burst from her—not like a calculated jab, but like something that had festered too long.
Thorn's brows lifted, the mood shifting. Lighter—for a moment.
His hands rose in mock innocence, palms open, his voice laced with a glimmer of teasing mischief.
"That's a vicious lie! Who told you that? Was it Rosette? I should have her head at once!"
He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes—not fully.
It was a mask. A defense. And Morganna didn't bite.
Her gaze dropped, lashes low over eyes that no longer sparkled. Her voice came colder now, like the chill of an autumn wind slipping through garden hedges.
"Don't bother about it."
A pause.
She raised her eyes, and something inside her hardened.
"And as I've asked every single day, Thorn—where is our daughter?"
The air shifted.
The rustle of leaves stilled. The garden seemed to hush in reverence or fear.
Thorn's smile faltered—thinned to the barest line. His shoulders slackened as he leaned back in his chair. The fountain behind them gurgled on, a soft, steady heartbeat that suddenly felt too loud.
His eyes wandered—up, away—toward the arching spray of water and sunlight.
There was distance in him now. Not just across the table, but deeper—like he had disappeared behind his own thoughts.
"Oh, our daughter…" he began, the words slow, uncertain.
His voice softened—not evasive, but tired.
"Well… I don't know where she is."
Morganna's jaw tightened.
"Don't give me that—you do know where she is, and I demand you tell me!"
His eyes returned to hers, calm. Solid.
"If you must know, I truly don't know where she is. Haven't you already assigned the Countess to look for her?"
Morganna froze.
How does he know?
Before she could speak, Thorn smiled faintly, answering the question unspoken.
"How do I know? Come on, my love—I'm the king. I don't just leave things as they are. I let humans behave as they will, but I see more than you think."
Morganna's voice dropped, heavy with resignation.
"This kingdom is doomed."
Thorn chuckled, spreading his arms like a ringmaster before a stage.
"Come now, don't say that! The kingdom has a strong queen managing things—keeping us all afloat with her fire and wit."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Then, as you know what I'm doing," Morganna said, her voice low and sharp, "you must know about the blood."
Thorn pressed a finger to his lips, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"Shh, my queen," he murmured, almost playfully. "That doesn't concern us."
Her jaw tightened.
"Oh, it does, my king." The words caught flame now. "Your ignorance is killing this kingdom slowly. The first act you should've done was weeding out those old, greedy bastards you call chancellors."
Thorn's shoulders rose with a slow breath, his tone still maddeningly calm.
"And then what?" he said. "Let destruction fall on the kingdom? Those old fools bring wealth, Morganna—however dirty their hands."
"Wealth?" she hissed. "Is that what you call it? Or do you want me to bring evidence of their corruption? Because I have it, Thorn. I have the letters. The documents. Proof to destroy them all. But no—you'd rather sit on your throne and watch while the kingdom burns from within."
A long silence stretched between them.
Thorn leaned forward, elbows resting gently on the table. The warmth in his face faded. His voice dropped—low, even, laced with a heaviness rarely seen.
"My dear… what happens in this kingdom happens in every kingdom. Bigger, more dangerous, more brutal than we'd like to admit."
He let the words settle, his gaze holding hers without blinking.
"You call it sitting idly. I call it waiting. Watching. Learning where the cracks truly run. Those old bastards? They've survived five kings. They're spiders, Morganna—webs in every house, loyal to nothing but their gold. We expose one, two more scurry into their place."
His fingers curled loosely on the table.
"I don't move until the whole nest can be crushed."
Morganna opened her mouth, but he didn't let her speak.
"And the Countess?" he went on, darker now. "She's no saint. You think she's your ally, feeding you scraps from her hidden vaults, whispering about righteousness and reform? She's using you. Playing you. She wants blood on your hands so she can step into the light clean."
Morganna's breath hitched.
Her lips parted—then closed again. Her knuckles whitened beneath her gloves.
Thorn softened, but only slightly.
"This kingdom's a mess," he said. "That much is true. But it's not the only storm we're facing."
He sat back, letting the full weight of his words hang between them.
"There are whispers—of movement, of armies shifting in the south, in the imperial kingdom, in the east where their prayers turn to swords. The world is turning, Morganna. Alliances are cracking. War's not a matter of if—it's a matter of when."
She held his gaze, eyes unreadable.
Her voice, when it came, was sharp again.
"Then what's the point of the summit you leaders hold?"
Thorn chuckled. But this time, the sound was dry. Brittle.
"That?" he said. "Just theater. A stage to measure how close the wolves have crept. Everyone smiles, drinks the wine, makes empty promises… and counts how many blades are hiding behind each back."
He sighed, gaze drifting to the sky above the garden canopy.
"I miss Subaru. He used to ruin everything with honesty. Those were lively days."
Before Morganna could reply, something shifted.
The air grew still—not silent, but watching. A strange pressure pressed inward, like the garden itself had taken a breath and forgotten how to release it.
Then—
Rustling.
Soft at first. Then louder.
Leaves? No…
Papers.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
They fell from the sky in a slow, drifting storm, spinning like leaves caught in a sorrowful wind. Thin sheets of parchment swirled downward, dancing on unseen currents. Some clung to rose thorns, others fluttered against the rim of the fountain. One slid past Morgana's cheek like a whisper.
She stood slowly, her gown brushing the grass with a hush. Her hand lifted—precise, graceful—and snatched a page midair. Her eyes flicked over the page, reading its inked script as it curled in her fingers.
Her expression twisted.
Not confusion. Not surprise.
Annoyance. Knowing.
She crushed the paper in her palm. The crumple sounded louder than it should have.
"Who does your friend think he is," she said coldly, "littering our kingdom like this?"
Thorn rose beside her, slower. But there was a gleam in his eye now—an edge of amusement, sharpened with something else.
Not shock.
Recognition.
"Finally," he breathed. "I can leave this place of a kingdom."
He took a step forward, toward the papers still falling, arms slightly raised like a boy glimpsing his first snowfall.
But Morganna's hand lashed out, fast as a striking viper. She seized his wrist—her grip tight, unshakable. Thorn paused, blinking at her.
Her voice was low. Steady. A thread of heat wrapped in velvet.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Thorn turned, a grin spreading across his face. "I want to go play, my love. Join the fun."
But the earth had other plans.
Roots burst from the ground beneath him, thick and alive, glowing faintly with a purplish hue—Morganna's power, divine and commanding. They coiled around his legs, twining up like serpents until he was bound in place, unable to move.
He glanced down, then up at her. She hadn't moved—just watched.
"No," she said softly. "No, no, no. You don't get to vanish. Not now. Not again. You're not leaving me to clean up the mess you've been ignoring."
Thorn's laughter came, gentler now. Less mocking. More... wistful. He searched her face like he was memorizing it.
"But why, my heart?"
Her lips trembled—but only slightly. Then they lifted at the corners, curving with an old affection sharpened by years of restraint.
"No buts," she said.
And in his mind—clear as a bell, electric as lightning—one name echoed, carried by instinct and memory and the scent of old ink on parchment:
Finally, Subaru… you're back.