Chapter 29 – I'll think about it 

Chapter 29 – I'll think about it 

Selene’s POV

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when we finished our quiet dinner. The sky outside the window of Lucian’s private chamber burned with streaks of coral and burnt orange, slowly giving way to lavender hues and the creeping darkness of dusk. The light from the setting sun danced across the floor tiles, painting them gold.

I stood to clear the dishes, but Lucian caught my hand before I could move. His expression was unreadable at first—calm, quiet, but with something simmering just beneath the surface. Mischief, maybe. Or something deeper.

“Come with me,” he said simply.

No explanation. No elaboration. Just those three words and the soft jingle of car keys in his hand.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, instinctively scanning his face for clues. But there was only that half-smile I was beginning to know too well—the one that meant he was up to something. Not dangerous. Just... different.

So I nodded.

We drove for what felt like forever.

Past the outer edge of the capital, beyond the neighborhoods clinging to the last threads of city life, and into open countryside where the air grew colder, fresher, and somehow more alive. Rolling hills stretched out like waves of dark velvet, their silhouettes kissed by the rising moon. Wildflowers grew in bursts along the roadside, glowing pale under the twilight. The farther we drove, the more the world fell away behind us.

It was just the hum of the engine, the wind pressing against the windows, and the sound of our breaths—steady, quiet, each one filling the space between us.

Eventually, he turned off the main road. The tires crunched softly on gravel as we followed an old path lined with ancient trees, their limbs reaching overhead like arching cathedral beams. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in dapples, casting dancing shadows across the dashboard and our joined silence.

When we stopped, it wasn’t at a destination I recognized.

Just a small woodland clearing nestled between two low hills. Quiet. Peaceful. As if time itself had slowed to a crawl here.

Lucian got out and came around to open my door. There was something deliberate in the way he moved—less like a prince, more like a man trying to share something sacred. Something real.

“This land belongs to the Nightborne Pack,” he said at last, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “I thought it was time you saw it for yourself.”

We walked side by side into the clearing, our footsteps muffled by moss and grass. The wind whispered through the trees above us, and the scent of wild herbs and damp earth clung to the air. Crickets chirped lazily, their song blending with the rustling leaves to create a lullaby older than memory.

Here, far from the chaos and intrigue of court, Lucian felt... different. Lighter. Less guarded. The weight he always carried in his shoulders seemed to melt away with each step we took beneath the stars.

I hadn’t realized the Lycan Court’s reach extended so far beyond the capital. I’d heard of their power, of course—of the Nightborne’s ancient lineage, their whispered history—but standing here in the quiet heart of their ancestral land, I felt it.

We crested a gentle rise, and suddenly the trees opened up into a glade.

A hush fell over everything.

Bathed in the golden spill of twilight stood a massive tree, easily the oldest I’d ever seen. Its trunk was wide and gnarled, bark like thick ropes of memory and time. Its roots coiled into the earth like the fingers of some slumbering god, and above, its sprawling branches reached toward the heavens, cradling clusters of blossoms that glowed faintly in the fading light.

I stopped walking. My breath caught in my throat.

Lucian came to stand beside me, his voice reverent.

“It’s the Bloodshade Tree,” he said. “Sacred to the Nightborne. My parents met here. Right under that branch.”

I looked up at the spot he gestured to—an outstretched bough heavy with white-pink blossoms that shimmered like silk in the evening breeze.

Whispers of legend swirled in my memory. I’d heard of this tree before, in passing mentions and overheard stories. A mythical place, some said. A sacred site said to bloom only under moonlight, its petals soaked in old magic and forgotten vows. Lovers had come here for generations to offer prayers, to tie tokens of hope and love to its branches, to ask for blessings whispered into the soil.

Now I understood why.

Around us, people moved with quiet purpose. A young couple knelt at the tree’s base, their foreheads touching as they murmured something private between them. A woman with silver-streaked hair tied a blue ribbon around a branch and pressed her fingers to it, eyes closed. Streamers and charms and tokens fluttered in the wind—some bright and newly tied, others faded with time and memory.

“What’s the tradition?” I asked, watching them all.

“If two souls tie a ribbon together here,” Lucian said, “it’s said the tree listens. And sometimes... it answers.”

He didn’t look at me as he said it. But his fingers brushed against mine—just briefly, like a whisper.

My heart stuttered. The question rose in my throat like a stormcloud.

“Did you ever come here with Isolde?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“No.”

One word. Simple. Honest. But it landed between us like a dropped stone, rippling out in silent waves. It meant more than I expected. More than he knew.

Before I could reply, a loud voice cut through the sacred stillness.

“They can’t just do this!”

We turned as one.

A tall man with tousled dark hair stood near the tree’s base, pacing angrily. His expression was sharp, his hands waving with barely restrained emotion. A smaller man trailed him, eyes wide with worry.

“Rian, please,” the shorter man hissed, tripping over exposed roots. “You’re going to get us in trouble!”

“The Bloodshade is ours!” Rian spat. “No one consulted us before—ow! Watch it!”

The two of them bickered like a mismatched storm, their argument echoing awkwardly off the trees. Eventually, they disappeared into the woods, their voices fading into the night.

Lucian exhaled quietly.

“The council’s decision hasn’t sat well with everyone,” he said.

I looked up at him. “Will it affect you?”

“Eventually.” He gave a small smile. “But not tonight.”

We walked on, deeper into the grove.

By now, twilight had dissolved fully into night. The last streaks of sunlight vanished behind the hills, and a soft hush settled over the clearing, like a veil being drawn over the world. The air smelled of blooming flowers and candle smoke. I found myself wanting to hold my breath, afraid to disturb the stillness.

We reached a low branch thick with blossoms. I hesitated for a moment, then slowly pulled the ribbon from my hair. I hadn’t thought twice about wearing it today—just a soft rose-colored strip to hold my curls back.

Now, it felt... perfect.

“I want to wish for our child,” I said quietly. “For their happiness.”

Lucian looked at me. Really looked. His expression softened into something tender, something vulnerable and full of wonder. He took one end of the ribbon without a word.

Together, we tied it to the branch.

Our fingers brushed. The breeze stirred the ribbon as if to carry our wish upward.

And then—

The blossoms began to glow.

Not faintly. Not symbolically.

Truly.

A gentle, warm crimson light shimmered from each petal, growing stronger with every passing second. It looked like starlight filtered through rose quartz, soft and dreamlike.

I gasped.

“It’s... glowing.”

Lucian’s gaze never left my face. “They’re called Moonborne blooms. They glow naturally, but only after the last light of day disappears.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“So are you,” he said before he could stop himself.

He turned away quickly, like the words had slipped out without his permission. I said nothing. Just smiled.

We stood there a long time—beneath a sky now blanketed with stars, beneath a tree older than kingdoms, surrounded by the quiet hopes of generations. Our ribbon danced among them.

I knew I’d never forget it.

The next day as we went through The capital, it greeted us with its usual clamor—carts rumbling over cobblestone, the shouts of vendors, the clang of blacksmiths hammering in the market. But I moved through the city like someone still half-dreaming, still wrapped in the hush of blossoms and glowing petals.

At Lady Nyra’s workshop, the world returned to its careful, familiar rhythm. I brewed tinctures, labeled vials, crushed herbs with mortar and pestle. The scents of lavender and sage clung to my hands, and the warmth of memory lingered like sunlight in my chest.

Just as we were cleaning up, Nyra pulled me aside.

“I have something for you,” she said, her voice bright with barely contained excitement.

She handed me a folded parchment.

I opened it.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The application for the Grand Elixiria.”

I blinked. “The national potion-making competition?”

She nodded, smiling. “But it’s not just a competition anymore. This year, the winner gets kingdom-wide recognition—retail contracts, scholarship offers, the works. It’s a life-changer.”

I stared at the form, my heart pounding. “But... I need a sponsor.”

Nyra just smirked. “Do you know any brilliant, beloved herbalist with decades of experience and a particular fondness for her apprentice?”

I laughed, the sound catching in my throat. “You’d vouch for me?”

“In a heartbeat. Just say the word.”

I looked down at the form again. My fingers trembled slightly.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

Nyra’s smile softened. “Do more than that. Promise me.”

I looked up, eyes wide.

Then I whispered, “Okay. I promise.”