Blooming Gardenia
It was eight o’clock sharp.
Viena, in her best dress of soft blue trimmed with pale gold, stood between Randia and Lisabelle—one holding her hand, the other fixing the bunny-ear bandana on her head with quick, fussy precision. Eleanor had stayed home; the old woman was under the weather, it was a pity that she couldn't come, but even so, she spent her morning to pack them a basket for lunch.
They were on their way to the Great Gardenia, Rosmayne’s grandest stadium—a colossal structure shaped like a blooming flower when seen from above. Towering fifty meters high and stretching across a vast 250-meter diameter, it stood as a testament to architectural ambition. The outer shell of the edifice gleamed with polished white marble, while the inner workings—its hypogeum, cavea, and service corridors—were carved from durable basalt and granite.
It was an engineering marvel of its time, born from the combined genius of designers and builders hailing from cities and nations across all thirteen realms. Yet for all its grandeur, what truly made the Gardenia distinct was its harmony with nature: vines of seasonal flora native to Rosmayne adorned its walls, cascading in waves of bloom that changed with the calendar—sculpting stone with the softness of petals.
“Papa, look!” Viena’s eyes sparkled as she tugged at Randia’s sleeve. “It looks even more beautiful today! And there’s so many people here!”
Randia gave her a gentle pat on the head. “Stay close. Don’t get lost.”
No sooner had he spoken than a vendor ambled past, balancing a hefty clay jar on his shoulder.
“Sweet-sour milk, Sire! Madame! Fresh from the meadows!” the old man called out in a sing-song voice.
Before anyone could stop her, Viena had already taken a few curious steps toward him, drawn by the scent and novelty.
But Lisabelle was faster.
She caught the back of Viena’s collar like a reflex, yanking her to a stop. The younger girl glanced back sheepishly, caught red-handed. Lisabelle didn’t say a word—just shot her a deadpan glare, eyebrows arched in that “really?” sort of way only big sisters could manage.
Viena grinned guiltily, her hands behind her back. “...Oops?”
They continued weaving their way toward the Great Gardenia, pressing through a sea of spectators, their footsteps swallowed in a cacophony of laughter, clapping, and the distant sound of trumpets. Silken banners in the colors of the thirteen realms flapped proudly above the thoroughfare, strung from flower-laden arches that arched over the road like guardians in bloom. The air smelled of rose honey and citrus oil, mingled with the spiced heat of street food and the earthy undertones of thousands of footsteps on cobblestone.
After some time, they reached the tail end of the inspection line—an orderly procession leading to the arena’s main entrance, where guards in plumed helms inspected belongings and fare. Viena’s shoulders sagged.
“Are we going to miss it?” she groaned. “It’s so long… the whole parade might be over by the time we get in!”
“Patience,” Randia murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd. “It’ll move.”
But Lisabelle was already glancing to the side, her keen eyes narrowing.
Not far off, low hedges of blooming jasmine marked the path for the nobility, their white petals brushing the ankles of passersby. A walkway of smooth, pale limestone stretched ahead, swept clean and lined with garlands strung overhead—woven with spring wildflowers and fluttering pennants in the colors of each realm.
“Guys. That one. Let’s try going there.” Lisabelle pointed, chin tilted.
Randia didn’t even look. “We can’t. That’s the entry for high nobility.”
Lisabelle turned toward him slowly, her expression unreadable at first. Then she raised her chin, her voice as cool and sharp as silver.
“And who do you think you’re talking to?”
She stepped forward, hands folded behind her back, as though recalling a memory too distant for anyone else to challenge. “My family might now be under clouds, yes. But we were once among the most revered in Rosmayne. The Arbona was the envy of the land.”
The wind caught her hair just then, tossing it lightly about her shoulders. Even the guards at the far gate seemed to take notice, their posture adjusting ever so slightly.
Randia exhaled a breath—not quite defeat, but certainly resignation. He knew Lisabelle when her pride sparked like this. There was no winning.
“Fine,” he muttered, giving Viena’s hand a gentle squeeze.
And with that, the three of them stepped toward the noble gate, framed by hanging gardens and marble pillars, as the symphony of opening fanfares began to rise from within the colosseum's great heart.
They had barely waited ten minutes in the nobility line when a royal guard began to approach, his polished cuirass glimpse beyond the morning ray. Unlike the other guests in the privileged lane—surrounded by butler, maid, trailing perfume, and elegant drapes—the trio stood apart. Lisabelle and Viena looked the part: the former resplendent in a custom-tailored ensemble, the latter radiant in her soft blue dress with light gold trim. But Randia, in his weatherworn coat and utilitarian boots, looked more like a seasoned wanderer than someone who belonged in a garden of crowns. No crests and no servants. Just the three of them, standing proud, and—at least in Randia’s case—a little mismatched.
The guard halted before them with courteous restraint, though his expression betrayed skepticism.
“Pardon me,” he said, voice firm but diplomatic. “Might I inquire which house you represent?”
Lisabelle lifted her chin with grace—and a pinch of defiance. “Arbon.”
The guard blinked. “I see. Have you brought proof of representation?”
Lisabelle froze for half a beat. She had not. In the rush of preparations, between renovations, late-night planning, and managing La Muse’s affairs, the finer protocols of nobility had slipped through the cracks. Her title alone, once enough to command respect, now meant little without paper to back it.
“No,” she said, trying to remain poised. “But I am Lisabelle of House Arbon. That should suffice.”
“I’m afraid not, my lady,” the guard said, voice stiffening. “Per this morning’s decree, all representatives must furnish documentation. By order of the Royal Council.”
Lisabelle’s eyes flared. “You’d bar me over a sheet of parchment?”
“It is not my place to question the rules, milady. Only to uphold them.”
The standoff grew sharper. Lisabelle’s voice, still elegant, began to edge toward fire. Randia glanced around, already sensing what came next: the ripple of attention. Nobles began to turn. A countess in violet furrowed her brow. A young marquess narrowed his eyes with amusement. There were murmurs.
“They’ve let commoners in now?”
“Where are the stewards? This is disgraceful.”
“Look at the guard. Can’t even keep the rabble in check.”
Randia’s jaw tensed. Viena clung to his sleeve, eyes wide with confusion.
Lisabelle caught the whispers too. She stood taller—not shrinking from shame, but burning from pride.
“I may lack parchment,” she said coldly, “but do not mistake me for one who lacks heritage. My house once raised roofs for your ilk. If you will not let me pass, then call your superior. I will not be dismissed at the gate like a stray dog.”
The guard, seemingly unable to get through her, turned his attention to Randia, hoping that the adult was easier to talk to.
"Are you their parent or guardian?" asked the guard.
"Yes, I am. I'm sorry for the commotion. Please forgive her bad temper. We will leave now."
"Thank you for your understanding, sir." the knight breathe a sigh of relief.
Randia was going to take Viena and Lisabelle go, until suddenly someone called on them from the inside the gate.
"Hold your horses, people!"
It was Professor Gaspard—who strolled up to the inspection post with the casual confidence of someone who’d seen a hundred such checkpoints in his lifetime and yawned through most of them. His uniform was standard issue, nothing flashy, and his posture was far too relaxed for someone with authority—yet the guards straightened as soon as they recognized his face.
“Morning, lads,” Gaspard greeted with a lopsided grin, hands tucked behind his back. “Bit of a fuss here, eh?”
The ranking guard blinked. “Professor Gaspard, sir—”
“Oh, drop the ‘sir,’ I’m not here to drill anyone. These folks—” he jerked a thumb toward Lisabelle, Randia, and Viena “—they’re with me. I’ll vouch for them.”
The guards hesitated a moment longer, exchanging glances. “Understood. If you say so, Professor.”
“Good lads.” Gaspard clapped one of them lightly on the shoulder. “Still making recruits do push-ups for breathing too loud?”
The guard gave a weak smile. “Only on even days, sir.”
Behind them, Viena squinted at the man with growing recognition. Then her eyes lit up.
“Iron Leg Gramps?!”
Gaspard turned, mock-offended. “Gramps? Kid, you’re making me sound ancient.”
Viena ran up, grinning. “I still remember your smelly leg ruining my birthday!”
"Hahahah! Fun kid indeed, aren't you? Come here! Let's get inside!"
Lisabelle arched a brow and leaned slightly toward Viena. “You know him?”
“He’s an instructor at the Royal Military Academy!” Viena chirped proudly, eyes gleaming. “He used to give Gwen a hard time—and he helped me solve Papa’s birthday treasure clues!”
Lisabelle folded her arms, gaze narrowing at the man’s relaxed gait and wide grin. “Hm... He doesn’t look like a professor at all.”
“I heard that, young lady!” came Gaspard’s voice, warm and unabashed. He limped over with a grin as wide as his shoulders. “And if I had a coin for every time someone said that, I’d have built myself a castle with a moat and three towers by now.”
He stopped beside them and Viena gave him a playful salute. “Still bright as ever, little bunny! You know, that Elixir of Retrovelum you gave me? I regained twenty years of my live from that delightful bottle. Thanks to that, now I enjoy pranking my idiot cadets more than ever."
“Heheh! You’re not supposed to do that,” Viena replied, giggling.
“Which is precisely why I do it,” Gaspard said, wagging a finger like a naughty uncle. “What’s the point of getting old if you can’t cause a little trouble?”
Lisabelle studied the professor a moment longer, clearly unconvinced. “He’s too casual. Don't you think so?” She glanced at the towering man beside her.
“Let's hope that there's nothing more to it,” Randia murmured, almost amused.