Morning light finds me nurturing the fresh frost flowers as a shadow falls across the garden bed. I look up, expecting Thorne or Balthren, but instead find myself facing Elm, the head gardener. His wrinkled face is drawn with concern.
"Miss," he says, gazing uncomfortably over his shoulder. "I must speak with you. Privately."
I nod, brushing soil from my palms onto my apron. The frost flowers shimmer as we pass, their exquisite petals both crystalline and supple—impossible opposites existing in harmony. Just like Thorne and me.
Elm walks me to the old gardening shed where tools sit in tidy rows along the walls. He checks outside once more before locking the door.
"Lady Revira held a gathering last night," he replies, voice barely audible. "My nephew serves in her household. He overheard information you and the prince need to know."
My stomach tightens. Lady Revira has been mysteriously absent since our miraculous breakthrough three days ago. I'd assumed she'd just given up her sabotage attempts after seeing our progress with the hybrid plants.
"What did he hear?" I ask.
"She's convinced half the aristocratic households that Prince Thorne's magic is perverted. That he's the source of the blight." Elm's fingers twist anxiously in his apron. "She says the prince must be removed to save Thornwall."
My blood runs cold. "Removed?"
"Deposed, at minimum. Perhaps worse." Elm's eyes meet mine. "They plan to petition the Royal Council to name her regent until King Aldric awakens—if he ever does."
"That's treason," I mutter, though the word feels inadequate for such a betrayal. "My nephew believes she has evidence that the plague intensified when Prince Thorne assumed control two years ago. She's using the prince's reputation against him—claiming his chilly manner is a symptom of magical corruption sweeping over the country."
I think of Thorne using his winter magic to drive back the Shadowmeres and how the magical blight worsened later. Not because his magic is wicked, but because it's incomplete—winter without spring, devastation without creation. "She's manipulating the truth," I say. "The magical imbalance has been developing for decades. We have proof now—"
"Proof few understand," Elm interrupts gently. "The court sees plants growing when you and Prince Thorne work together, yes. But Lady Revira calls it your magic temporarily defeating his depravity. She says it's unsustainable."
I push open the shed door, craving air. "How many support her?"
"Half the council, maybe more. Some actually believe her. Others merely see opportunities in chaos."
Outside, the early sun catches on the frost flowers, sending rainbow prisms dancing across the garden. These lovely impossibilities are our answer—proof that winter and spring magic belong together. But will anyone beyond Thorne, Balthren, and myself comprehend their significance before it's too late? "Thank you, Elm. I need to find the prince urgently."
I discover Thorne in Balthren's tower, bent over ancient texts describing Thornwall's foundation. His silver eyes, always so meticulously controlled, flash with wrath when I deliver him Elm's news.
"I expected this," he adds, voice tense. "But not so soon. We need more time to strengthen the new wards."
Balthren brushes his white beard thoughtfully. "Lady Revira moves now because she must. The triumph of your combined power threatens everything she's labored for."
"How many council members will stand with you?" I ask Thorne.
"Four, perhaps five of twelve," he acknowledges. "Many fence-sit, waiting to see which way the wind blows."
"Then we need to show them," I respond with startling clarity. "Not just the council—everyone. The nobles, the servants, the guards. They need to see what's happening with their own eyes."
Thorne lifts an eyebrow. "What do you propose?"
"A public demonstration. The center garden courtyard may host hundreds. We show them our combined magic—how the frost-flowers bloom, how they strengthen the wards."
"A brave move," Balthren says, "but risky. If something goes wrong..."
"It's already going wrong," I counter. "Lady Revira controls the narrative since we've been operating in secrecy. We need to fix it."
Thorne marches, frost crystallizing briefly beneath his boots with each step—a symbol of his impatience. "You don't understand judicial politics. They'll claim I've bewitched you or that I'm using you to disguise my depravity momentarily."
"Then we need more than just a demonstration," I insist. "We need proof of Revira's treachery."
A knock interrupts us—a royal guard with news that makes Thorne's expression darken more. Lady Revira has formally sought an emergency council session for tomorrow morning. Her claimed purpose: confronting "the worsening magical crisis and necessary leadership changes."
After the guard leaves, Thorne slams his fist on the table, ice spreading across its surface. "She's moving faster than I anticipated."
"Then so must we," I respond, laying my hand over his. The ice recedes where our skin joins. "Let me chat with some of the landscaping personnel tonight. Many have served the palace for centuries. They might know more about Revira's movements, maybe even her ambitions."
Thorne's expression relaxes momentarily. "Be careful. Revira has eyes everywhere."
"I know." I clasp his hand. "But so do the gardens."
That night, I slip around the servants' quarters, conversing quietly with those Elm trusts. I find that Lady Revira received mysterious deliveries late at night for months—packages that coincided with new garden sabotage. A kitchen maid spotted her speaking with a hooded figure in the east wing, where few venture. Most incriminating, her private quarters are alleged to be unusually black, shadows moving against the rules of light.
I'm returning to my cottage when a hand clamps over my mouth. I struggle until a familiar voice whispers, "It's me."
Thorne releases me, leading me into a shadowed corner. "Revira's guards are searching for you. Someone informed her you've been asking questions."
My heart pounds. "Did they find anything incriminating in her rooms?"
"No time to search. The council meeting has been pushed up—it begins at daybreak." His visage is harsh in the darkness. "She claims to have proof I've been corrupting the king's magic deliberately."
"That's absurd! You've been trying to save him!"
"Truth matters little in power struggles," he remarks sadly. "Perception is everything."
A strategy arises in my mind—dangerous, yet vital. "The king's chamber," I whisper. "If we could show the council how our combined magic affects him—"
"Too risky," Thorne cuts me off. "We don't know if it would help or harm him."
"We saw improvement when we tried it before," I argue. "Just enough to make him stir. If the council could see that, what if something goes wrong? If he worsens? Thorne's voice breaks slightly. "He's still my father."
I touch his cheek. "I know. But doing nothing secures Revira's success."
He's silent for a long period before nodding once, angrily. "We'll try. Tonight, before the council meets. But we'll need Balthren's cooperation to get past the royal guards."
As we creep down darkened passages toward the king's apartments, I feel the weight of all Thornwall weighing down on us. If we fail, Revira wins. If something happens to the monarch, the guilt will consume Thorne.
And somewhere beyond our failing wards, the Shadowmeres lurk, sensing our frailty, eager to consume everything we're striving to protect.
The clock strikes midnight as we reach the king's door. One way or another, by daybreak, Thornwall's fate will be decided.