The Forsaken Crown

The years after the war began were cruel and quiet. The grand halls of the palace felt emptier, their echoes louder and more accusatory. I buried myself in what little joy I could find. The letters Lucien did sent though few and less frequent became my lifeline. Each one was a treasure, wrapped in silken ribbons, scented faintly with lavender or jasmine, and always accompanied by a flower.

A violet for modesty. A bluebell for constancy. A sprig of rosemary for remembrance. The petals carried messages, whispers of a language I didn't yet understand. It wasn't enough to read his words; I wanted to decipher the meanings behind the blooms. So, I began to study.

While other princesses might have devoted their hours to music or embroidery, I spent mine in the vast palace library, my fingers running over the spines of old books on botany and the forgotten art of floriography. The ancient tomes spoke of how flowers could convey emotions and intentions when words failed. They became my companions in the long, lonely nights as the war raged on.

I traced the meanings with care. When a daisy arrived with his latest letter, I knew it meant hope. When an iris came next, it spoke of valor. Each bloom was a thread connecting me to him, no matter how far apart we were. His words, too, were a salve for my restless heart. He wrote of battles fought and sights seen, of markets bustling with life and wildflowers growing unchecked along Ovkosnia's hills. His words painted pictures of freedom, of a world beyond the stone walls that surrounded me.

And yet, there was always an ache in them, a shadow that lingered between the lines. The war had changed him; I could feel it in every stroke of his pen. But I clung to the boy I remembered, the one with the crooked smile who had laughed under the wisteria tree.

Time, however, was unkind. The letters became even less frequent than they already were. Sometimes weeks passed before a new one arrived. Sometimes months. Soon the flowers stopped coming altogether. I told myself he was simply busy, that the war demanded more of him than he could give. But deep down, I feared the worst. What if he had forgotten me? What if the boy who had promised we would meet again was gone, replaced by someone I no longer recognized?

Still, I waited. And as I waited, I changed.

The courtiers whispered about me in hushed tones. Ice Princess. Heart of Stone. They said I had grown cold, distant. They didn't understand. How could they? They hadn't lived my life, hadn't felt the weight of the crown pressing down even before it sat on my head. They didn't know what it was to lose the one person who made you feel alive.

But I wore their whispers like armor. If they thought me cold, so be it. Better cold than weak. Better distant than vulnerable.

What I didn't know—what I couldn't have known—was that Lucien had never truly left me. While I poured over dusty tomes and endured the whispers of the court, he was here, in Evirthnia, weaving his own web of influence. He had become a man of the people, his charm and wit endearing him to merchants, nobles, and common folk alike. They called him Lucien of the Wisteria, a title that stung when I finally learned of it, for the wisteria tree had been ours.

But that revelation was still far in the future. For now, I remained in the dark, waiting for a letter that would never come, clinging to memories of a boy who had already begun to slip away.

Even now, looking back, I wonder if I should have seen it. The signs were there, scattered like petals on the wind. But I was too caught up in my own sorrow, too blinded by the walls I had built around myself. And so, the story continued, unwritten yet inevitable, leading us both toward the storm that neither of us could escape.