The first tear touched the soil, and the entire garden went silent.

The heavy double doors banged against the stone walls, cutting through the murmurs of the banquet hall like a physical blow.

All eyes swung toward the entrance. Striding down the center aisle was High Chancellor Moros, an ancient, skeletal man whose robes of office were stiff with gold embroidery and ancient seals. Behind him marched a detachment of the royal guard, their halberds clanking rhythmically against the marble floor.

Moros walked with the unhurried arrogance of a man who believed he held more real power than the monarch sitting on the throne. He stopped ten paces from the dais, not bothering to bow deeply, offering only a stiff, perfunctory nod.

“Your Majesty,” Moros rasped, his voice dry as autumn leaves. “The High Council has convened an emergency session. We cannot permit this evening’s... theatrical display to dictate the future stability of the realm.”

Julian rose slowly from his seat, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. His presence was immediately formidable, towering over the elderly chancellor.

“The future of the realm was decided this morning in the courtyard, Chancellor,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “The decree was clear. The maiden who revived the royal flower shall be my queen.”

“A decree spoken in a moment of emotional distraction,” Moros retorted sharply, his sunken eyes flashing with cold disdain as he glanced briefly toward Ariadne. “Ancient law dictates that a queen must possess unbroken noble lineage, diplomatic training, and the allegiance of the major houses. A kitchen servant holds none of these qualifications. To place her on the throne is to invite civil rebellion from the duchies.”

“Let them rebel,” Julian’s voice echoed off the high ceiling, silencing every whisper in the hall. “A kingdom that relies on oppression and arrogance deserves to fall. She breathed life into our dying symbol when your alchemists and nobles brought only greed. She has proven her worth.”

“Worth?” Moros sneered, stepping closer. “Value in this world is measured by power and coin, Your Majesty. That flower was merely a fluke—a dormant seed tricked by humidity and coincidence. If she is truly worthy of the crown, let her prove it through the traditional Trial of the Hearth.”

Ariadne’s heart skipped a beat. Even from her position of ignorance regarding court politics, she recognized the dangerous glint in the chancellor’s eye.

Julian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “The Trial of the Hearth was abolished a century ago. It is a barbaric relic meant to break claimants, not test them.”

“Then perhaps the king is afraid his chosen bride is nothing more than a frightened child playing at magic,” Moros replied, turning his gaze directly onto Ariadne with a chilling smile. “If she walks through the ancient vaults beneath the citadel—where the ancestral fires test the purity of royal blood—and emerges alive, the Council will accept her. If she refuses, or if she fails, she returns to the scullery, and the alliance with House Vane proceeds as originally planned.”