Chapter 23

The scent of roses clung to the air, thick and sweet, but there was nothing gentle in the garden where Serenya had been cast. The blossoms were not flowers at all—at least not natural ones. Their crimson petals shone faintly under moonlight, shimmering with a sheen like wet blood. Their thorns were long, curved like hooks, and when she reached too close to push aside a vine, it snapped forward, drawing a line of red across her wrist.

She recoiled, heart pounding. The garden walls loomed high around her, overgrown with these thorned monstrosities, and beyond them she heard only silence. No guards, no footsteps. Just the pulse of her own breath and the faint rustle of vines that seemed almost alive.

“Eloria…” Serenya whispered, bitterness curling her lips. It had been the rival princess’s doing, she was certain. The Betrayer’s Kiss—that was how the court would remember tonight. Kaelen’s lips had pressed against hers only to betray her into the hands of her enemies. Yet even as the thought flared, doubt shadowed it. She had seen the torment in his eyes. Something was wrong—something deeper than a simple betrayal.

Still, she was here, trapped, and Kaelen was gone.

She pressed her back against a stone bench carved with roses, catching her breath. The garden was beautiful in a cruel way, every path winding into endless brambles that formed walls higher than she could climb. Lanterns glowed faintly along the stone walkways, their flames untouched by the wind. It was not a prison built of iron, but of beauty—a cage scented with roses and poison.

Her thoughts spiraled back to Darian Crestfall, his hand reaching for her as she was dragged away, his shout swallowed by the chaos. She prayed he had escaped, prayed Kaelen had not truly turned traitor, and prayed most of all that her hidden bloodline was still safe from discovery. If Thalric Veynor learned the truth—that she was the lost heir of Valeora—her life would end long before dawn.

A whisper cut through her prayers.

“You shouldn’t move too quickly. They like that.”

Serenya spun around, heart in her throat. From the shadows near a rose archway, a figure stepped forward. She recognized the flowing cloak of deep green before she recognized the face.

“Cyrion Duskbane,” she breathed.

The fallen heir smiled faintly, though it carried no warmth. His silver hair glimmered in the lantern light, and his eyes—dark, unyielding—watched her like a hawk.

“So you’re here too.”

He inclined his head. “Welcome to the Prison of Roses. A garden where time forgets you and beauty devours you. Some call it mercy. I call it a cage dressed in velvet.”

Serenya’s fingers curled into fists. “Why are you here? Did you help them capture me?”

“Help them?” He let out a dry laugh. “No, Lady Vale. I am a prisoner as much as you are. Thalric knows the roses feed on despair. They grow stronger with every drop of hope we surrender. He delights in watching us wilt.”

She studied him warily. Cyrion Duskbane—the heir of a fallen kingdom, a man whose name had once been spoken with reverence but now with pity and suspicion. She had heard tales of his cunning, his ambition hidden beneath humility. Could she trust him?

“You mean we’re alone here?” she asked.

“No.” His gaze flickered to the shadows. “The roses are listening.”

Almost on cue, the vines nearest them rustled, petals opening wider as though breathing. Serenya’s skin crawled.

“Then how do we escape?” she demanded, forcing courage into her voice.

Cyrion gave a wry smile. “That is the question, isn’t it? Many have tried. Some climbed the walls—only to be dragged down screaming. Others tried to burn the roses. The fire only feeds them. They bloom brighter after. No one escapes without help from beyond the walls.”

Her chest tightened. “Then we’re doomed?”

“Not doomed,” he corrected softly, stepping closer. “Not if we’re clever. Not if we’re willing to bleed.”

She caught his meaning, her gaze flicking to the cut on her wrist. Already the rose vine had curled subtly toward her, its thorns glinting.

“You mean they drink blood.”

He nodded once. “And blood is power.”

Before she could reply, the lanterns flickered. A hush fell over the garden, heavier than before. From beyond the archway, footsteps echoed. Serenya froze.

“Eloria,” she whispered, bracing herself.

But it was not Eloria who entered.

Kaelen Draven stepped into the garden, his dark cloak trailing behind him, his face unreadable.

Serenya’s heart lurched between rage and relief. “You.”

Cyrion raised a brow, gaze sharp. “Ah. The betrayer comes to visit his prize.”

Kaelen’s eyes met Serenya’s, and for a heartbeat she saw torment there—real torment, not feigned. Then his expression hardened.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he told her, voice rough.

Her fury broke free. “Shouldn’t be here? You kissed me only to hand me over! Was that your oath of shadows, Kaelen? To play executioner for the Duke?”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t deny it, didn’t defend himself. Instead, he lowered his voice. “I had no choice. Listen to me, Serenya—”

“No,” she snapped, stepping back toward the thorned vines. “I will not listen to lies.”

The roses seemed to stir at her anger, petals opening wider, their glow brightening. Cyrion glanced between them, lips curving in intrigue.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting indeed.”

Kaelen’s gaze flicked briefly to Cyrion, a spark of recognition—or perhaps rivalry—flashing in his eyes. Then he stepped closer to Serenya, ignoring the thorns that tore at his cloak.

“You don’t understand. If I hadn’t done it, Eloria would have killed you. I bought us time.”

Serenya shook her head, pain twisting inside her. She wanted to believe him. Every fiber of her being screamed to believe him. But trust was fragile, and his kiss had broken it.

“Time for what?” she asked bitterly. “So you can stand here and watch me wither in this cursed garden?”

For the first time, his mask cracked. His hand lifted, trembling, as though he longed to touch her but dared not. “Time for me to find the key.”

The words struck her like lightning. A key. There was a way out.

Cyrion’s eyes narrowed, sharp with sudden calculation. “So it’s true. You’re working both sides.”

Kaelen’s gaze flicked toward him, cold. “Stay out of this.”

“On the contrary,” Cyrion said smoothly, stepping nearer. “If there is a way out of this prison, I will know it. And so will she. Or perhaps,” his lips curled, “you mean to save her alone?”

Serenya’s chest tightened as the air thickened with tension. The roses rustled, hungrily, as though savoring the conflict.

Kaelen’s voice dropped to a whisper only Serenya could hear. “I’ll come back. Hold on. Trust me once more.”

Then, before she could answer, he turned and vanished into the archway, swallowed by the shadows.

Serenya stood frozen, her heart torn in two.

Cyrion’s voice cut softly through the silence. “Do you see now, Serenya? A man divided between love and lies cannot save you. But I can.”

She turned to him sharply, but words failed her.

The roses swayed, their thorns glistening with fresh hunger. Somewhere beyond the walls, bells tolled midnight, and the Prison of Roses seemed to breathe with life.

Serenya knew this was only the beginning.