Chapter 3 – Gardens That Do Not Bloom

Violeta

Há manhãs em que as flores não têm perfume.

Hoje foi uma delas.

The sun rose over the Hanging Gardens of Rubraflor, gilding the petals amber, yet inside me everything felt gray. I woke surrounded by the same whispers of silk, the same light steps of servants, the same walls painted with gold. Gold has no soul.

And I? A princess with no realm of her own, rooted in marble and expectation.

“Your Highness, your walking dress,” said Mara, my oldest maid, holding out a pale-pink, flowered gown, as if it could turn me into a delicate lady.

“Not today,” I murmured. “I want the scarlet attire.”

“But that is… the ceremonial gown,” she faltered. “It is improper for a spring morning—”

“Spring no longer blooms, Mara,” I replied, brushing the dress aside with the back of my hand.

She sighed but did not argue. No one argues with the king’s daughter—­not when everything still smells of mourning.

The palace’s south corridor overlooked the great nectar lake, once my mother’s favorite place. Every spring she hosted the “Crown of Petals Ceremony,” where children wove flowers into tiaras. They say the perfume carried for miles then.

Today, the lake is wilted. So is my father.

“Father,” I called, entering his private chambers unannounced—a privilege of being heir, and a curse.

King Alderian stood before the cold hearth, studying a parchment marked with red ink—trade routes and maps. He did not turn immediately.

“Violet,” his voice was low, as if he had just buried someone.

“I want to ride beyond the gates. Just for a day. A horseback outing, perhaps to the edge of Rose Vale…”

“No.”

The answer came swift, without hesitation.

“At least listen,” I insisted. “Staying inside suffocates me. The walls whisper… Mother’s absence echoes everywhere.”

He finally turned. His eyes—so like mine—were tired, hollow; yet within them lay a broken strength, like a cracked wall still standing.

“Violet, you are all I have left. Every step you take beyond these walls is a blade to my heart.” He stepped nearer, placing a hand on my shoulder. “If you die, I die.”

“And living like this—isn’t it dying by degrees?”

Silence.

He lowered his gaze. For a moment he looked like any man, not the King of Hearts. I wanted to embrace him. I wanted to hate him. Instead I felt pity, because he saw me as the living memory of the woman he lost.

Back in my room, I studied the portrait on the wall. The painting was old, its edges faded yet vibrant at the center.

Mother smiled, cherry-red hair loose in the wind. I was a child in her arms. My father rode a white horse, flower-covered hills of the Hearts realm behind us. I remember that day—the scent of the fields, my mother’s light laughter, the warmth of her palm on my cheek.

It was the last time we were a family.

At the end of that royal cycle she died. Some say she was poisoned by an Espadaris spy. Others that the peace treaty itself killed her—the political burden disguised as truce.

All I know is that since then my father has never been the same.

That night, when the halls slept and the corridors were empty, barefoot and wrapped in an emerald cloak, I walked the palace’s hidden passages.

Not the first time. My father thought he protected me—he never knew how much I listened.

I slipped behind a loose tapestry into a narrow corridor, climbed the stairs to the strategy hall. There he stood with Counselor Elren, the court’s eldest, famed for maps and whispers.

“Ignaros is giving us more than agreed,” my father said, voice tense. “Forges, rare metals, supplies. In return… they want influence in the Council of Seasons.”

“That could tip the balance with Espadaris,” Elren warned. “They will not accept Ignaros inside Cardan.”

“Espadaris had its chance at peace,” Alderian replied. “Now Cardan must survive.”

“And the princess?”

“She is safe. In here.”

“For how long?” the counselor whispered.

My father gave no answer. His expression wavered; he touched the silver chain at his neck—Mother’s, always hidden beneath his clothes. A Hearts amulet, broken in half.

He still loved her. And still saw me as part of her.

I returned to my room before they noticed my absence, but something within me had shifted.

Hearts may bloom, yet sometimes the roots must be cut to grow free.

I would not remain forever behind walls.

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The bells rang through Rubraflor like an unwelcome memory: the Council of Seasons was returning.

After thirteen long years of political silence, the sacred event—once annual—would resume. For the first time since the War of Tears, envoys from Espadaris, Ignaros, and Aurum would set foot on Cartaran soil.

The palace had become a whirlwind of servants, advisors, and guards racing as though the very Gods of the Deck were dining.

“The banners must align with the sacred calendar!” puffed the Master of Decorations. “Hearts east, Swords north, Clubs south, Diamonds west, per the Cycle’s Order!”

Gardeners replanted flowers into suit emblems. The kitchens turned into culinary battlefields, rare spices arriving from every corner of Cartara. Tapestries of the season-tree and the Royal Cycle hung in every corridor.

I—the king’s daughter, the locked-away heir—was, as ever, mere ornament.

At least until today.

“This is madness,” I whispered, heart hammering.

“Madness would be letting that sky slip away,” Caelion answered, half-smiling as he helped me scale the inner wall of the western courtyard.

Caelion was my cousin on Mother’s side. Son of Queen Liora’s youngest sister, he’d grown far from court, in a village where trees spoke to the wind and stories were freer than laws. Now he served as a mid-rank guard in Cardan. Tall, dark-brown hair brushing his eyes, keen gaze and almost-forbidden smile. Unlike other soldiers, he knew when to keep his sword sheathed—and when to wield sharp words.

“Why are you doing this for me?” I asked, sliding beside him through the vines.

“Because you’re like a valuable card forgotten at the bottom of the deck,” he said. “And because royalty must remember how the world breathes beyond walls.”

We reached the outer garden where the wall dipped lower. From there we could see the Living Lavender Fields, a place I’d known only in paintings.

For a moment, I breathed.

No protocol.

No tight gowns.

No father watching me as though I were made of broken glass.

“Do you think,” I began, eyes on the coppery evening sky, “that this Council of Seasons will truly bring peace?”

Caelion leaned on a stone. “I think the Council will bring answers. Some truths, some lies—maybe opportunities.” He held my gaze. “But do not trust those who arrive smiling too much. Nor those who never speak.”

“Then I should trust no one?”

“Only those who see you as you are. Not as a symbol.”

I looked at him a long moment. A strange—and welcome—feeling stirred in my chest. I pressed it down. This was only borrowed freedom, a glimpse of the impossible.

Hours later, I dressed once more as a princess. My father wished me present for a statement about the Council. Not to speak—only to listen and smile.

“Violet,” he said, hands braced on the council table, “the envoys from Espadaris and Aurum will arrive within five days. Ignaros perhaps sooner. You must be ready for the ceremonies.”

“Ceremonies or performances?” I could not keep the acid from my voice.

He frowned—more wrinkles, more silence between us.

“The Glass Treaty stands. No one must forget it.”

“Not even you?”

He did not answer, but I saw his eyes drift to the Clubs emblem painted on one political card. Ignaros—the realm now trading weapons with Cardan… in secret.

“Will the Clubs bring their queen?” I ventured.

“Queen Kerya will send a delegation. A diplomat—perhaps more. It is not your concern.”

“Everything in this realm is my concern, Father. One day, it will be mine.”

He sighed, and for a heartbeat the man appeared behind the crown.

“Your mother said the same,” he murmured. “She believed too much in the goodness of realms.”

“And that killed her?”

Ele me olhou com dor, mas não disse nada.

"Você acha que me proteger vai me tornar diferente dela?"

"Não sei. Mas..." Ele parou, os olhos vagando para um retrato próximo — minha mãe, a Rainha Liora, sorrindo enquanto cavalgávamos.

"A lembrança dói porque foi real", sussurrei.

Ele não respondeu, virando-se para encerrar a conversa, como sempre.

Naquela noite, caminhei sozinho até o Salão das Estações. Ainda em preparação, mas a grandiosidade era evidente.

Os quatro tronos simbólicos estavam lá

— Copas — pétalas e prata, curvas suaves.

Espadas — mármore e aço, afiadas como a neve.

Paus — bronze e chamas, símbolos tribais.

Diamantes — ouro fosco e espelhos, velados.

Na mesa central, ainda vazia, logo estariam as cartas dos reis — cartas reais, seladas em sangue e cera, declarando a intenção de cada reino para o novo ciclo.

"O mundo voltará os olhos para nós, Violet", disse a voz de Elren, materializando-se como uma sombra atrás de mim. "E você deve brilhar, mesmo que tudo por dentro esteja desmoronando."

"Eu não sou uma estrela", sussurrei.

"Não", ele sorriu, "mas talvez você seja a carta mais perigosa do baralho."