𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 21

Flora's room bathed in the soft glow of morning light. As she stretched her arms, the promise of a new day unfolded before her. The rhythmic knock on her door interrupted her reverie, and she welcomed the intrusion.

"Come in," Flora called, her voice warm and inviting. The door creaked open, revealing a young woman with a neat apron and a gentle smile. Anna—the newly appointed personal maid—stood before her.

"Good morning, Lady Flora," Anna greeted, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "I'm Anna. From today onward, I'll be at your service." She held out a delicate dress, its fabric whispering of elegance and grace. "Here is your dress, Miss. I'll return shortly to attend to your hair and makeup."

Flora's heart swelled with gratitude. Anna's presence promised a touch of magic—a companion in this grand estate where solitude often reigned. Flora nodded, her smile mirroring Anna's sweetness. "Thank you, Anna," she said. "I look forward to your care."

And so, as the sun climbed higher, Flora donned her dress, ready to face the day with grace and anticipation.

Dress..

Hair..

Makeup..

Flora's heart fluttered as Anna's skilled hands wove intricate braids into her hair, and her cheeks blushed under the gentle touch of makeup brushes. The anticipation of the royal dining room weighed heavily on her—its grandeur, its whispered secrets, and the unspoken expectations.

With a deep breath, Flora stepped into the opulent space. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen constellations, casting prismatic rainbows across the marble floor. The air hummed with hushed conversations, the rustle of silk, and the clinking of silverware.

Every noble of Hareum was present, their attire a symphony of colors and fabrics. Lady Isolde, resplendent in sapphire blue, whose laughter echoed like distant thunder. The Duke of Eldermore sat regally, his eyes scanning the room with practiced scrutiny.

But where was Prince Atlas? His absence gnawed at Flora's nerves. She had heard tales of his enigmatic nature—the prince who danced with shadows, whose laughter held both mischief and melancholy. His portrait hung in the gallery, capturing eyes that seemed to hold secrets untold.

And then, the void at the head of the table—the king and queen. Their thrones stood empty, draped in velvet and gold. Whispers swirled like autumn leaves: illness, diplomacy, perhaps a clandestine journey.

Flora found her place among the nobles, her fingers tracing the delicate embroidery on her gown. She wondered if Atlas would appear, his presence like a comet streaking through the night sky. Would he notice her—the new arrival, the lady with the wildflower name?

Prince Atlas, with an air of regal charm, had materialized beside Flora's chair. His presence, like a sunbeam breaking through the morning mist, warmed her heart. Flora's cheeks flushed as he addressed her as his love. "Good morning, my love," he whispered, and the words danced like butterflies in the air. She mustered her courage, her voice a soft melody, "Good morning, Prince Atlas." Their eyes locked, and in that fleeting moment, the world seemed to pause, leaving only their shared affection hanging in the delicate balance of morning light.

The air in the room shifted, and the delicate bubble of their shared moment burst. King Cedric, with a regal demeanor, cleared his throat—a sound that echoed like distant thunder. His eyes bore into Prince Atlas and Flora with a little smile, a silent reminder of their roles and responsibilities. The weight of the kingdom rested on their shoulders, and love, though sweet, was a luxury they couldn't afford in public.

Queen Seraphina, ever the mischievous orchestrator of hearts, wore a knowing smile. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and she leaned toward the king, whispering words that only he could hear. The queen reveled in their youthful blushes, a reminder of her own courtship with Cedric when the world was painted in softer hues.

Prince Atlas and Flora, caught in the crossfire of royal scrutiny, exchanged furtive glances. Their fingers brushed, seeking solace in the warmth of each other's touch. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as if conspiring to keep their secret. But duty called, and they tore their gaze away, their cheeks aflame.

"Prince Atlas's and Lady Flora's Marriage will be held on next week. For tomorrow the preparation will start"
The grand announcement reverberated through the opulent halls of the palace: Prince Atlas and Flora, their hearts entwined like ivy, were to be wed. The courtiers exchanged whispers, their curiosity piqued by the suddenness of it all. Flora's breath caught in her throat; she hadn't anticipated this whirlwind of events and she didn't thought this will be soon. The king's decree hung heavy in the air, like a tapestry woven with both joy and trepidation.

Flora, her eyes wide as moonflowers, stole a glance at Prince Atlas. His joy was palpable—a sunburst breaking through storm clouds. For him, the impending union was a beacon of hope, a promise of shared tomorrows. But for Flora, it was a tempest of emotions—an unexpected tempest that threatened to sweep her away.

The queen, ever the sage, approached Flora. Her eyes held both sympathy and mischief. "Love blooms in haste," she murmured, her voice a secret shared only with the wind. "And sometimes, my dear, haste is a blessing."

Flora's mind whirled. The preparations would begin tomorrow—the gowns, the flowers, the whispered vows. She wondered if love could be woven swiftly, like a silken thread on a loom. Could she learn to be a princess, to wear her title with grace? The weight of the crown seemed both distant and imminent.

Prince Atlas, oblivious to Flora's inner turmoil, clasped her hand. His touch was warmth and reassurance. "Soon," he whispered, "we'll dance under moonlit arches, and our love will be the melody."

And so, the palace buzzed with anticipation—the seamstresses stitching dreams into silk, the gardeners coaxing roses to bloom early. Flora's heart raced, torn between the past and the promise of a shared future. She wondered if love, like a rare flower, could thrive even when plucked from its roots.