Midnight In the Glass Garden

That night, just after twelve, he had someone come get me.

A note arrived by way of a quiet boy in servant’s clothes, someone unfamiliar. His face showed nothing. Without a word, he passed me a thick dark cloak. A tilt of his head told me where to go. Most inside were long since resting. Each step I took made the old wood shriek underfoot. There would be no grand exit. Instead, we moved through a narrow back passage meant for helpers below stairs. Cold air met us beyond, within the high-walled plot where herbs grow.

That icy evening hit hard, filled with the bite of frozen ground and sleeping soil. Wrapped myself tighter in the heavy cloth. Following behind, the servant guided my steps through rows of leafless orchard trees. Off near the edge, an iron gate waited, half open, tangled with clinging vines. Inside, the broken greenhouse sat silent.

Empty echoes lived there. Stretching out, the structure sat low, made of glass and chipped white metal, time wearing it down. Dirt layered thick on the windows, years piled up like dust. Through splits in the glass, vines forced their way in, thin branches clawing into the rooms. At the entrance, the attendant came to a halt, glancing at the house. Nothing left for him to do.

Bones shook with each beat inside my chest. There would be no turning back now. A slow breath filled my lungs before the gate creaked forward. Footsteps followed cracked stone, leading straight to the glass-walled room ahead.

Fog clung to the inside air, sharp with mold and old earth. Light slipped in, thin and ghostlike, through cracked panes above, coloring everything cold. Cracked pots sagged into piles near bent shovels under dust. There - facing a blackened vine that reached like bone toward shattered glass - stood Duke Noah Wingknight.

A coat lay crumpled near the door, left behind without care. In just a vest and shirt, he filled the dim room with quiet presence, light catching the pale cloth at his chest. Sleeves pushed up showed arms shaped by years of unseen effort. A dried leaf rested between his fingers, edges crumbling under careful touch. Moonlight carved the line of his jaw, still as stone. Not royalty tonight - more like someone who never quite found their way home.

You arrived," he stated, still facing away. The sound of his words bounced gently through the room lined with mirrors.

“You didn’t give me the impression refusal was an option.”

That’s not true. Only then did he look at me. Under that strange glow, his features stood out sharply, like something not quite real. Moonlight traced his cheekbones, ran along his jaw, slipped into the hollows beneath his eyes. Tiredness showed there. Yet every part of him seemed awake. This spot has been left behind. People stay away. Noise fades fast. Here alone, within the city, words pass unheard by hidden listeners

He took a step toward me, his boots crunching on dried leaves. “Now. We establish the rules of our… understanding. You will answer my questions. With complete truth. I will know if you are lying.”

“How?” I said, my voice so soft it almost vanished into the air.

A flicker of something - amusement? - touched his eyes. “Because I have spent my life in a court of liars, Miss Rimestone. I know the cadence of a falsehood. Yours would be amateur.” He closed the distance, stopping just outside the reach of my trembling hands. “First question. The extent of your knowledge. Is it random? Or can you… summon it?”

I wrapped my arms around myself. “It’s not random. It’s like… a library in my mind. But I can’t browse the shelves at will. Sometimes a sight, a name, a conversation… it pulls a specific book down. The information is there, but the index is flawed.”

He absorbed this, his gaze intense. “The southern trade ledgers. What pulled that book down?”

“Seeing Alistair Foy’s face. I knew his name from… my source. Seeing him made the details of his crime surface.”

“Your source,” he repeated, his voice low. “We will circle back to that. Second question. Your motive. Why strike at Foy? Why not simply run?”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Run where? With what money? To be dragged back by Christian or found by my family’s creditors? It wasn’t an attack. It was a… test.”

“A test?”

“To see if the knowledge was accurate. To see if I could change anything.” I met his gaze, letting him see the despair there. “It was.”

For a while he said nothing, just looked at me like I was something puzzling. "You're attempting to change a route you think has already been decided."

“I am trying to survive.”

“At what cost?” he asked softly, dangerously. “You exposed Foy, but you exposed yourself to me. A reckless trade.”

“You were the calculated risk,” I whispered. “Christian is a poison. You are… a fire. I chose the fire.”

A change crossed his face. Not quite warmth, yet close - almost as if he saw value where before there was only strategy. He moved away slowly, steps measured, arms folded at the small of his back. Stability, in his view, wasn’t built by feeding nobles who thrived on decay. His brother wore the crown well enough, kind even - but unaware of how deep the damage ran beneath ceremony and title. Stability comes from removing what's broken,” he said, turning toward me. That look stayed with me. Your understanding might help heal things. Then again, it might just wound me instead

“I do not wish to harm the kingdom,” I told them - each word landing like a stone dropped into still water. That moment held nothing but honesty.

“But you would hurt Christian Zephry,” he stated.

“Yes.”

"Fine." It sounded like a promise. Back he stepped, filling the small room too completely. My conditions now, without soft edges. A locked part of his house becomes your new place. His guest you’ll stay, also - out where everyone sees - the odd tale of us two, lovers just appeared. Enough noise to break your arranged match apart. When we are alone, you take the role of counselor. A voice from the shadows, watching. Whatever the shelves uncover - danger near the throne, rot inside the court, secrets whispered behind walls - you pass it all to me

Bending close, he brought his face near enough to feel my breath. Only his eyes filled my vision, bright like sparks in the night. Protection - that’s what he offered. A barrier between me and Christian’s grip, between me and hidden schemes at the edge of safety. Yet one thing needed saying, he said, voice low. Paige Rimestone - he shaped each syllable slowly, like it meant something heavy. Not equal allies, us. This bond tilted from the start. A promise written in blood, hidden deep within shadow. You’ll stay locked away, closer than any truth I keep - yet ready to strike like fire when needed

He straightened, his voice dropping to a final, icy whisper. “Cross me, and your secret becomes the kingdom’s entertainment. Fail me, and I leave you to your fate.”

A silence stretched tight, sharp as a wire. Not one paper passed hands. His promise stood instead - spoken by someone whose name made others vanish.

At the rim once more, my feet on cracked stone. Not shoved forward now - instead, handed a strap of iron, shaped in fire beneath his throne.

Staring back at that wild, unbreakable gaze, I knew what had to happen. The moment hung sharp, then settled - my decision already made.

“You will be my seer,” he said, his voice final, sealing the pact, “and I, your shield.”