Chapter 11: Spark in the Amber (2)
I walk through the seemingly endless corridor of my estate, my steps measured, echoing faintly against the polished marble floor. The air is cool, tinged with the faint scent of candle wax and aged wood. After taking two right turns and descending the grand staircase, I arrive at the rose garden.
"Father does not wish for me to meet anyone. Then let it be as our benevolent patriarch desires," I murmur with dry amusement, the rich leather of my shoes brushing against the turquoise-hued grass. The fragrance of a thousand blooms—flowers that exist nowhere but within the confines of our estate—fills my senses, a symphony of delicate scents woven into the gentle breeze. Towering trees cast cooling shadows, offering respite from the relentless sun. Outside, the world is perpetually dull, overcast with an air of somber stillness. But here... here, it is vibrant. Almost surreal.
The climate of the rose garden defies nature itself. Cool in summer, yet warm in winter, sustained by the rare herbs cultivated within the soil, each one imbuing the land with an unseen vitality. I stroll through this sanctuary, my posture relaxed, almost languid, as if still within the comfort of my chambers.
Only the gardeners ever set foot here, and even they come but rarely. Most of the flora tend to themselves, as though the garden is a living entity, thriving without the touch of mortal hands. Crimson roses bloom beside ice-blue blossoms, their velvety petals reminiscent of lion's mane. The deep auburn bark of ancient trees is entwined with violet vines, curling around the sacred fruits of the Earthly Tree. Woolflies—creatures both delicate and ethereal—hover over the blossoms, scattering their magical blue dust, coaxing the petals into their full splendor.
A faint smile touches my lips, something rare, something almost unfamiliar. I inhale deeply, as though I can finally breathe, and finally exist beyond the weight of expectations. The warm glow of the sun filters through the canopy, a baby blue embrace I do not deserve.
"Excuse me, my lord...?"
A delicate voice reaches my ears, freezing my veins. My breath catches, my blue heart turning to ice. I open my eyes, silently praying that it is merely the illusion of the Echo Blossom, a trick played by the garden itself.
But it is not.
She is real.
Beneath a cascade of fiery red-orange hair, a young woman gazes at me, her expression one of mild curiosity. Her delicate features—small, upturned nose, soft cheeks reminiscent of a child's—are bathed in the golden light of the afternoon. Her eyes, deep and gleaming like polished amber, mirror the hues of her elegant gown. A dainty hat sits atop her head, exuding an air of innocence, while a diamond ring glimmers on her slender pinky finger. Strands of orange pearls rest against her throat, bordering on gold in the shifting light.
She smiles.