𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐀

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 22

After breakfast, Queen led Flora to the garden. "Dear," she said, her voice soft and trembling, "call me mother from now on, okay?" Flora's eyes widened, and she nodded, her smile fading. "Yes, mother," she whispered.

Queen's gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, her fingers tracing the delicate petals of a wilting rose. "The Queen of Ivor," she began, her voice barely audible, "told you to call her mother, right?" Flora hesitated, her small hand clutching the edge of her dress. "How do you know, mother?" she asked, her eyes searching Queen's face.

A heavy silence hung in the air, suffocating and laden with memories. Queen's eyes welled up as she spoke, her voice breaking. "She is my best friend," she confessed. "Her daughter..." Her voice trailed off, lost in the echoes of the past. "Her daughter was kidnapped years ago," Queen continued, her fingers trembling. "The princess was just a newborn at that time."

The garden seemed to hold its breath, the flowers drooping as if mourning alongside Queen. "I still get nightmares," she admitted, her voice raw. "Nightmares of that fateful night—the screams, the desperation." She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. "She was crying," Queen whispered, her voice barely audible, "while shaking me vigorously."

Flora watched her, her innocent eyes wide with empathy. In that moment, the weight of loss and longing hung heavy between them—a shared grief that transcended titles and kingdoms.

The queen's tears flowed freely as she recounted the tragedy. Flora, enveloped her in a comforting embrace. A sharp ache pierced Flora's heart as she listened to the queen's sorrowful tale. The weight of the queen's pain settled upon them both, binding them in shared grief.

After spending half of the day Flora went to her chamber.In the soft glow of her chamber, Flora dipped her quill into the inkwell, the feather poised delicately above the parchment to write a letter to the queen of ivor. The flickering candlelight danced upon the surface, casting shadows that seemed to echo the rhythm of her thoughts.

"Dear Mother,"she began, her penmanship graceful and deliberate. The words flowed effortlessly, as if the ink itself held secrets waiting to be unfurled. Yet, the Queen of Ivor had once gently admonished her, requesting a more intimate address. "Call me 'Mother,'"she had said, her eyes kind but firm. And so, Flora hesitated, her heart torn between tradition and familiarity.

But the parchment awaited her sentiments, and Flora pressed on. "How fares your realm, dearest Mother? she inquired, her strokes forming elegant loops and curves. "Is the sun still a golden sentinel, guarding the turrets of Ivor? Are the gardens lush with blooms, their petals whispering secrets to the breeze?" She imagined the Queen's smile, the way it softened the stern lines etched by duty and time.

And then, with a flourish, she confessed her own well-being: "Here in Hareum, the days unfold like silken ribbons. The courtiers dance, their laughter echoing through marble halls. The jasmine vines cling to the lattice, their fragrance weaving dreams and also the king announced mine and prince Atlas's marriage is held on next week I hope the invitation letter is already there" Flora's gaze drifted to the window, where moonlight bathed the courtyard in silver. "The nightingales serenade the stars, and I, too, find solace in their melodies."

But it was the closing lines that held her breath captive:"Know this, dear Mother: My love for you transcends titles and crowns. It is a tapestry woven with threads of loyalty, admiration, and kinship. You are not merely the Queen of Ivor; you are the keeper of my heart. As a daughter loves her mother, so do I love you." The ink dried, sealing her sentiments within the fibers of the parchment.

And as the candle flickered, casting elongated shadows across the room, Flora wondered if her words would reach across the expanse that separated their realms. Perhaps, just perhaps, they would find their way to the Queen's chambers, where another quill would trace a reply—a reply that would bridge the distance, binding two souls as tightly as the ink bound their letters.

In the hushed sanctuary of her chamber, where candlelight painted shadows on the walls, Flora felt the world shift. The delicate parchment lay forgotten, its ink still drying, as the door yielded to a gentle knock.

Turning, her eyes met the figure that had haunted her thoughts—the enigmatic Prince Atlas. His presence was a tempest of contrasts: the regal bearing of a monarch, yet the vulnerability of a man who had glimpsed the abyss. His eyes held secrets, and Flora wondered if they mirrored her own.

And then, as if orchestrated by fate, he stepped closer, bridging the distance between them. His arms encircled her, drawing her into an embrace that defied the boundaries of courtly decorum. The warmth of his chest seeped through her gown, igniting a fire within her—a fire that danced in cadence with her racing heart.

"Come,"*his voice, a velvet whisper, brushed against her ear. "We've to have dinner." The words were simple, mundane even, yet they resonated like a sonnet composed for her alone. Flora's breath hitched, caught between duty and desire.

Together, they stepped into the corridor, the torches flickering in homage to their passage. The castle walls held their secrets, their stones echoing the footsteps of countless generations. Flora stole glances at Atlas—the curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his brow.

"Is the banquet hall ready?"** she asked, her voice a fragile thread. But it was not the feast that consumed her thoughts; it was the taste of his lips, the promise of stolen kisses beneath moonlit arches.

Atlas chuckled, a sound that resonated in her bones."The hall awaits," he replied, his fingers brushing hers. "But tonight, let us feast on more than sustenance. Let our hearts dine on stolen moments, Flora and also Mother and father is not present yet they'll come soon and before we've to be sitted on the hall."

And so, they descended the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing like a duet. The courtiers would gossip, the tapestries would whisper, but none could fathom the depth of their connection—the fragile bridge between duty and desire.

As they entered the banquet hall, its opulence a testament to power and tradition, Flora wondered if love could flourish in such gilded confines. But then Atlas leaned close, his lips was almost touching her earlobe,then whisperer "Sit beside me..."