The day couldn’t be more perfect for such a memorable event. The village air is clear and crisp, carrying a rich, pleasant taste that seems to linger on the tongue. Even the temperature feels just right—warm and cozy, with a gentle breeze cooling the heat from the day’s sun. Birds sing with particular beauty, adding a harmonious note to the atmosphere. Long rays of sunlight creep into a small room on the second floor of a modest, rustic cottage. Inside the warm, inviting space, a woman puts the finishing touches on her youngest daughter’s hair.
The older woman’s long, flowing black hair, accented with hints of dark red, frames her face as delicately as the petals of her namesake flower. Her deep green eyes hold the same softness as the single camellia flower nestled behind her ear, a reflection of her gentle grace and beauty. Yet today, her breaths come unevenly, overwhelmed by the myriad of emotions running through her.
“Are we done yet?” her daughter asks, making her mother chuckle at her impatience.
“Almost,” Camellia replies, carefully placing rose petals in her daughter’s hair. Finding roses is no small feat. While not exactly rare, the dwindling supply of magic and the scarcity of those capable of wielding it, combined with the village’s remote location, make obtaining fresh flowers costly—more than they could comfortably afford. Yet her husband has always been a determined man; it’s what eventually won her over, and he kept that determination, finding a way to bring more than a few roses for his daughter’s special day. Camellia wipes away a fresh tear as she looks at her Rose in the mirror.
Rose stood in contrast to her mother in appearance, yet she was no less striking, especially today. Her dress, a rich, earthy hue, may once have belonged to her older sister, but it had been carefully restitched to fit her perfectly. It draped gracefully over her delicate figure, accentuating the gentle curves of her youth all while representing her transition from a little girl to a woman of the village. Her bright auburn hair, freshly cut short for the ceremony, framed her face with a youthful charm. Small braids wove through her hair, adorned with delicate rose petals—the emblem of her soul—that encircled her head like a crown of vibrant red gems. Her amber-brown eyes shone with excitement, reflecting the warm sunlight that filtered into the room, and her face was alight with anticipation.
Camellia sighed, wiping away another tear. “I can’t believe you’re already sixteen.”
“Oh, come on,” Rose says, shifting slightly as her mother’s pure emotion stirs a similar ache in her own chest. Watching her mother on the brink of tears only makes it harder for Rose to hold herself together. “Iris had her ceremony only two years ago!” she adds quickly, adjusting her dress as a smile creeps across her face. It fits her better than it ever did her older sister, and the thought alone warms her smile. As always, it’s a hand-me-down from Iris, but her mother’s skill with a needle has transformed it to fit her perfectly. Rose doesn’t mind that it once belonged to her sister; after all, soon enough, she’ll begin a life of her own, filled with things that will be just hers—and hers alone. Her cheeks warmed at the thought.
Her gaze unconsciously shifts to her father’s flower pinned over her mother’s heart. The small set of rowan flowers fit perfectly with her mothers dress and the sight stirs a blush as Rose’s fingers trace the empty space over her own dress. As always, it would begin with a flower, and now she was old enough to receive one herself.
"Ah! I can’t believe it either," Camellia sighs. "My beautiful babies are growing up." A soft, bittersweet smile trembles on her lips. She reaches out, brushing a stray hair behind Rose’s ear, her fingers lingering for a moment. "You look so grown up, Lei El’ora," she whispers with gentle love, her voice warm and a little unsteady. Her eyes shine with pride with a touch of nostalgia. "Iris looked wonderful, but this dress suits you even more. Be sure to thank Liana for her work, remember."
“I will, Mom,” Rose says with determination. Standing tall, she finds that her eyes now stand just a bit higher than her mother’s. She gently grabs her mother’s hands in her own. “Thank you, Mother,” she says with a warm smile and from the depths of her own soul. She might not have been the perfect daughter, but her mother had always been there for her. It had hurt to see Iris receive everything she wanted, while she herself had only gained scraps but she grew up long ago and had long understood her place in the family. Still there were quiet acts of care that came her way. This dress for instance. it had suited Iris, but there was a reason it seemed to fit her better. Rose gently swallows her emotions as she looks on with love that only a daughter could have. “Shall we show Dad?” she suggested.
“I think he’d like that.” Camellia let Rose pull her hands away, feeling the warmth leave them as she watched her daughter walk through the open double door with a warm pride beating gently in her heart. With a large, steady breath she allows herself some time to wipe her eyes before following close behind.
Still, she has to pause at the doorway of the master bedroom. Turning her head her eyes find the marks on the door frame as her fingers gently tracing the growth marks dug into the wood—evidence of her daughter's growth. The only thing that remains of their short childhood. The marks stop just above her own eyes. “We really need to measure them again,” she chokes out the whisper, swallowing the emotion. She knew this day would come but still, it's too soon isn't it?
Lifting her hand from the marks she looked at the long, scarred fingers, cut from years of stitch work and many accidents in the kitchen. She ran a thumb over the scared fingers. Looking up she saw that Rose had already started down the stairs. She smiles at the sight. It was well worth a few nicks. “Where did all that time go?” she wonders aloud as she fixes herself. Once she was ready she followed her daughter downstairs.
Directly across from the stairs is the home's living room. It was here where Rose’s father sat at the table, his large arms crossed over his portly belly. Though his once-powerful muscles have softened, traces of his former strength remain. 11 years without his left leg have transformed the once-proud soldier into an honorable elder, his spirit undiminished even as his belly remains full.
When Rose steps into the room, her father’s jaw drops ever so slightly, his weathered face softening with surprise as his eyes widen while he takes in every detail—the rose-petal crown in her hair, the delicate dress, and the glow of youth and joy radiating from her. He blinks, as though trying to fully grasp the vision before him.
“Cami,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. His gaze shifts briefly to his wife standing behind Rose, causing him to blink a few times, his sharp brown eyes darting between the two. “Gods above,” he mutters, focusing back on Rose. “You look just like her.”
A small smile tugs at Rose’s lips as she glances back at her mother. She’s amused, knowing that everyone in the village always says Iris takes after their mother. Yet her father’s awe remains, undimmed, as he shakes his head. "Look at you, my little girl…” he says softly. “Wow, I always knew you were beautiful, but I just…” His smile softened. “Your mother looked just like you.” his eyes turned to his wife. “Remember that day. You were just as pretty as you are now.” he added slyly.
“I had pink petals,” Camellia teases, a playful glint in her eyes. “They may be lighter than red, but you know my flower is much easier to find.”
Rowan waves her words aside. “It was fate,” he insists. “The rose bush bloomed the day you were born. Did you know that?” he said looking back at his daughter, taking in the sight of her once again.
Rose rolls her eyes, unable to help herself. “Of course,” she replies, a touch dryly. “You’ve told me that story my whole life. The clouds parted at my first cry, and the rose bushes bloomed one last time before they died. It’s a bit… bleak, don’t you think?”
Rowan shrugs, a faint smile on his face. “You might have mentioned that… once or twice.” He ran a hand through his own hair, “Oh, my little girl… I knew this day would come, but I never imagined you’d look so beautiful."
He clenches his teeth slightly, struggling to keep his emotions in check as he reaches out a hand, rough and calloused from years of wielding a blade. Rose steps closer, placing her hand in his, and he wraps it in both of his own, holding tightly as he looks deeply into her eyes, a small, proud smile playing on his face.
“You’re all grown up now,” he whispers, a tear welling in his eye despite himself. “Gods above, I remember when you were just a little thing, barely above my kn—” His voice falters as his free hand drifts to the stump where his knee used to be. He shudders for a moment, the light fading from his eye before continuing. “That is... you used to chase me around the garden and…” He lets out a grunt, giving the table a gentle tap with his fist.
“But all that aside,” he begins, his voice booming with renewed strength, “if anyone is daft enough to try and give you his flower today, I’ll be ready to show him what an old soldier can still do.” he threatened with a large, pure smile.
Rose jumped at the noise, and Camellia sighed with a warning smile. "Dear," she said pointedly. Rose’s cheeks flushed as red as her namesake when she caught the meaning behind her father’s words. Her hand drifted to the empty space near her heart, feeling its thunderous beat. She glanced around, her brows knitting together. "Where is Acker?" she asked. "I thought he was going to be here."
“Your sister,” Rowan replied, heavily emphasizing the word sister, “went to the village square ahead of time. She and that boy had something private to discuss,” he added, a hint of a hiss in his voice.
"Come now, dear." Camellia walked over, placing a gentle hand on her husband's back, and he reached up to clasp her hand. "You knew this day would come eventually."
"Yeah!" Rose interjected. "Besides, you didn’t get this upset when Iris had her coming-of-age ceremony!" she complained.
"That’s because your sister was smart enough to decline any flower some fool offered to her," he retorted, eyeing Rose as he rose on his one good leg. "You, on the other hand, might feel the pressure. You’ve always been so damned softhearted."
"Dear."
"I get it, I get it—ouch, stop pinching!" Camellia always knew just where to find the tender spot to pinch, it was uncomfortable but the true power of this action was when she would twist. This action caused any foolish man who ignored her warnings to cry out in pain. "But I’m still going to break anyone dumb enough to try and take advantage of—ouch!"
"It’s her day, dear; tell her she’s pretty."
"I did—ouch. You’re very pretty today," he muttered, rubbing his back where his wife had pinched him.
Rose gave a soft chuckle. "Thank you, Dad."
"You used to call me Daddy."
Rose chuckled again, a hint of nostalgia in her smile. "Heh. You used to lift me up and toss me in the air." She swallowed quickly, but it was too late—the words had already escaped.
Thankfully, her father just chuckled. “Well… you used to be a lot lighter, and I a few librées heavier.” He took up his staff—a shortened, battered remnant of his old quarterstaff. The base was still wrapped in heavy iron, giving it weight and balance, while the top, splintered from battle, was bound in thick, worn leather to create a crude yet sturdy padding that fit snugly under his arm. With a practiced grip on the dark, polished leather wrap, he leaned forward, walking on his own while Camellia hovered nearby, ready to steady him if his old weapon threatened to fail him once again.
He raised a hand to Rose, cupping her face gently, his thumb tracing a soft line across her cheek. “You’re beautiful, my girl,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet pride.
Rose smiled, leaning into his touch as a familiar warmth spread across her face and settled deeply in her heart. “Thank you… Daddy.” She shifted uncomfortably at that, her face flushing with embarrassment.
The gentle moment lingered until Camellia broke the silence. “Right, we do have to get her to the Hovkaas before the ceremony starts.”
Rowan cleared his throat and straightened up. “Right, well, let’s get going. Iris will meet us at the ceremony, and you need to join the other girls.” He smiled, “I doubt any of them could outshine you today.” He said proudly.
“Of course! Rose has been perfected by my hand!” Camellia teased, stepping past her husband to tuck back a stray hair that had escaped. “Now come, it took a little longer to get you ready than I expected, and we might be late.”
“What?” Rose’s eyes widened, “Mom, you woke me up before the crows!”
“And the crows will be fine. Your hair is very thick, Lei El'ora,” she said affectionately, giving her daughter’s cheek a gentle tap. “Now let’s get going” With that, she moved past them, opening the heavy front door with ease, and smiled as she ushered them out. “Quickly,” she snapped. “The crows can fly. We walk.”
They made their way to the Hovkaas, the village chief’s home just in front of the village center. On most days, it served as the village chief’s home or a welcome center for the rare visits from nobles overseeing the region. But today, it was transformed into a gathering place for the girls who were all turning sixteen. Rose wasn’t alone; she was the last of the seven girls in the village coming of age this year.
“Rose!” came a voice as she stepped into the Hovkaas alone. The dim light blurred her vision momentarily, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted. She had just bid farewell to her parents as tradition dictated she enter by herself. The interior was grand, almost awe-inspiring, with rich, polished wood walls arching gracefully overhead. The craftsmanship displayed a blend of elegance and restraint—smooth, dark timber walls lined with intricate carvings that caught the flickering glow of lanterns. Thick, heavy beams stretched across the ceiling, creating a sense of strength and stability and every little bit of it was cleaned to a polish.
The room felt like an ocean of warmth and richness, a space so breathtaking it would have stolen Rose’s breath—had it not been for the familiar voice that called her back. “Rosie!” Mari called again. Her second-oldest friend stood before her, golden eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Mari wore a light, brown-gold dress, its soft hues reminiscent of freshly turned soil kissed by the late afternoon sun. Though simple in cut, the dress held a quiet beauty, adorned with tiny marigold petals sewn carefully along the hem and neckline, each one a bright spot of color against the fabric. She had woven more petals into her loose, chestnut-brown hair, which tumbled over her shoulders like a cascade of autumn leaves.
Stolen novel; please report.
Like Rose, Mari had recently turned sixteen, just two months earlier than her. Today, she too shone with a natural grace like everyone else in this room. This was their day as much as it was Rose’s—a shared celebration between them as the girls would soon take their first steps into adulthood.
“You look beautiful!” Mari exclaimed, her voice ringing out and drawing the room’s attention. Rose glanced around, her gaze settling on familiar faces—Oselle, Iana, Violet, Lia, and Brie. She recognized them all of course. It was a big village and yet small all the same.
She’d shared hard times with some, genuinely happy memories with others, and there was Oselle, in the corner, as awkward and unapproachable as ever. Yet, here they all were, each dressed to the nines, each stepping into a new chapter. They all looked lovely, but Rose couldn’t shake the feeling that no one could quite outshine her today. It was a shared day, but it was also her day. Her hand drifted to the spot above her heart. Like everyone else here, it was empty for now—but not for long.
“Thank you, Mari! You look gorgeous. I’m so glad your mother finished the dress on time; it’s wonderful!” She complimented her friend, happy to see she managed to prepare everything in time.
“Thanks! Your mother did an amazing job, too—I can hardly tell your dress was ever worn before.” As the two girls chatted, their words a flurry of excitement, one of the others approached—a girl with dark hair adorned with pink and white petals cascading down her back like gentle waves of night. Her hair was held in place by a few well-placed braids.
“Rose,” Brie said, her voice weighted.
“Brie,” Rose replied, while Mari shot Brie a sideways glance. Brie’s lips thinned as she looked at Rose, a low hum escaping the back of her throat before she finally spoke.
"Thank your father for me," Brie said, raising a hand to touch a petal in her hair.
Rose’s eyes widened slightly as she noticed the exceptionally rare flower woven into Brie’s hair. Much like her own petals. She nodded. “I will.”
An awkward silence settled between them before Rose hesitantly asked, “Is there anything else?”
Brie looked down, muttering something inaudible. Rose tilted her head. “What was that?”
Brie glanced up, her expression tense. “You look... good,” she mumbled before turning on her heel and stomping away.
Rose and Mari exchanged glances. “Your dad did a lot for everyone,” Mari said with a smile. “Honestly, who names their kid after the Briar Rose these days?”
“The same kind that names their kids after a Rose,” Rose replied with a smirk. “Especially after the last one the village had died soon after.”
Mari chuckled softly. “Right, but your dad’s different. Unlike Brie’s parents, yours actually worked for a noble.”
Rose shrugged. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Sure, they had connections, but she’d trade all the petals in her hair if it meant she hadn’t had to watch her parents fall apart that one horrible day 11 years ago. Her gaze drifted to the back of Brie’s head, her mind brushing over their old conflicts. Age had softened their childish spats considerably but… Rose shook her head. “One second,” she murmured, moving past Mari
But before Rose could take a step forward, a sharp clap echoed through the room, drawing all the girls’ attention to the Mérofée, the village chief’s wife.
The Mérofée stood with the Mérahn at her side. Though she and her mother-in-law rarely saw eye to eye, they always put their differences aside for events like this. Village unity was everything, after all. Even her daughter, the Delarin, stood beside her with a bright expression, though she was four years too young to be part of the ceremony herself.
The Mérofée looked at each girl, beckoning them closer with a simple gesture with both hands. Excited, she clapped once more. She then glanced at the Mérahn, who gave a small nod of approval, before turning back to the soon-to-be women gathered before her. A soft smile spread across her face as she began to speak.
“Daughters of Sayotheo,” she began. Her words were complemented with her actions, allowing her to deliver her speech with a lot of animated gusto. “Today you stand at the brink of womanhood, ready to blossom into the next season of life, as the flowers do each spring on the Arbrenvie—the tree that anchors our very world. In Sayotheo, we especially are all part of this great tree—men as its sturdy branches, roots, and trunk, and women as the flowers that bloom upon it, bringing color, beauty, and the promise of new life.
“To be a woman here is to carry both blessing and duty. Soon you will showcase your talent and beauty to the entire village, and not long after, you will marry, bring forth life, and care for your kin. The life of a family springs from the women who hold it together, and you will know the joy of watching it grow. Your husband will be your support, your protector, and you, in turn, will be his light, his guide. Just as the flowers lead us to the heart of the tree, so you will be the gentle pull that keeps his heart and mind from wandering. In serving him, you serve all of Sayotheo, strengthening the bonds that hold our people as one.”
“In this journey, remember that we are blessed by the Seven who dwell above, and we honor them with our lives. Each god above watches over a part of our lives, from the bounty of the fields to the warmth of our hearths. Together, they balance the heavens and earth, light and shadow, and we must honor them through family, tradition, and the quiet strength that you, as women, carry.
“So walk with pride today, young daughters—new women of Sayotheo—and prepare to step into the life that awaits you. You are the flowers on our tree, the life that springs forth when all else grows bare, and it is a gift to see you bloom. You will make our village proud, bringing beauty and new life to Sayotheo as only true daughters can.”
The Mérahn began to clap, dryly. This quickly prompted the girls to join in as well. The Mérofée looked around and nodded approvingly. A large smile on her face. “That being said, I am proud of each and every one of you. The Mérahn and I have watched each of you grow into fine women.” With a nod to her mother-in-law, she stepped back, allowing the Mérahn to address the group.
The Mérahn took a step forward and, with a deep breath, spoke in a voice both hard and sharp. “I won’t give you a grand speech. You know your duty, and you know what’s expected. Go forth, marry well, give birth, and serve your kin. Keep your heads high and your hands steady.”
With that, the Mérahn turned and walked further into the home, disappearing behind a door, leaving the young women in solemn silence until the Mérofée began to clap, signaling what they were supposed to do. After a smattering of polite applause, she began to speak again.
“Well, with that we are ready to—” The Mérofée’s words were cut off by the sharp sound of the side door creaking open. Every head turned to the noise, and Rose’s eyes widened as she recognized her sister, Iris, standing in the doorway, her dark blue eyes wide as she looked at everyone staring back at her.
“I…” Iris began, her voice trembling. She seemed to struggle for the right words, but before she could continue, the Mérofée’s firm tone cut through.
“Iris, dear, I understand your desire to support your sister, but today is a pivotal day for all the girls, and we’re nearly ready to begin.”
“I… I’m sorry, but I need to speak with Rose, just for a moment,” Iris said quickly, her gaze darting to Rose, flickering with urgency and… something else Rose rarely saw in her older sister.
“You can speak to her later,” the Mérofée replied, her voice growing icier, thickening the air in the room. “Right now, we must prepare.”
“But—”
“Iris, daughter of Rowan,” the Mérofée’s words held a finality that crushed any hope of protest, “when you came of age, no one interrupted you did they?” without waiting for a reply she continued. “Show the respect you received—to your fellow villagers and, especially, to your sister.”
“I… I understand,” Iris murmured, her voice barely a whisper. But her eyes lingered on Rose.
Rose felt a chill settle in her chest from Iris’s gaze, but as the Mérahn cleared her throat, Iris had no choice but to leave. Rose glanced around, noticing the others casting curious glances her way. Her mouth went a little dry, but the Mérofée clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention back.
“Right,” the Mérofée continued, “as I was saying, today is your day. Let no one—” her gaze lingered on Rose for a heartbeat longer—“ruin it for you. Remember, today you become a woman. Today, you begin your life in earnest.”
With those words, Rose felt a small surge of reassurance. Iris’s sudden appearance still lingered at the back of her mind, but today was meant to be about her. Her sister had enjoyed her own special day, even had the distinction of being the oldest, getting everything while she had to become used to receiving second hand items from her.
Perhaps Iris simply wasn’t used to standing on the sidelines… not that she’d intentionally disrupt Rose’s day. Iris wasnt that kind of woman… Rose gave a quick shake of her head, refocusing as the Mérahn began to explain the day’s proceedings. Though it was their celebration, the expectation was clear—they were to perform flawlessly.
The village of Sayotheo celebrated many unique holidays, but Épanflor de Vie was among the most important. Similar to other coming-of-age ceremonies, it was marked with special grandeur in Sayotheo. On this day, the village’s residents dressed in their finest attire, but it was the unmarried men who took extra care, each grooming himself meticulously in hopes of catching the eye of one of the young women stepping into adulthood. They awaited the moment when the flower pinned to their lapel, bearing their name and the soul of their heart, might be accepted by one of these new women.
As the sun dips low, casting a golden hue over the village square, the air fills with the solemn, haunting call of the lur horn. The villagers fall silent, heads turning expectantly toward the large wooden doors of the village chief’s home. Standing there in the now-open doorway is the Mérofée, holding herself tall and proud as she leads the new women outside, guiding them into the world for the first time as adults.
Behind her, the young women stand in a line, their dresses in earthy tones of brown, green, and ochre, each shade reflecting the soil beneath their feet. The dresses drape gracefully, enhancing the natural beauty of each girl. Petals are woven through their hair, with some tucked into their dresses—each one identified by the flower that represents her very soul.
A deep, steady beat of the frame drum begins, slow and resonant, as the Mérofée steps forward, leading the girls behind her. In a graceful procession, they follow, heads held high. Beneath their calm exteriors, their faces reveal a touch of nervousness, a reminder of the day’s significance.
A lyre joins the drum, plucking a soft, repetitive melody that cloaks the scene in an air of timeless ritual. Villagers watch, captivated by the beauty and symbolism before them. As the procession reaches the town center, they see the Chevrain waiting. When the Mérofée reaches her husband, they share a brief embrace—a symbol of unity between the sexes in this sacred moment. Hand in hand, they step forward together, leading the new women to the heart of the square.
At this signal, the girls spread out in a semicircle around the couple, each one standing poised, proud, and serene, like flowers turned toward the sun.
A flute begins to play, its gentle, airy notes floating above the steady drum and lyre, like whispers from the gods themselves, blessing this transition just long enough to ensure each girl is ready. As the music slows, it fades into a profound silence.
The Chevrain raises his hands, addressing the crowd with pride. “Today, we honor not only these young women but all the life our village has nurtured this past year. Seventeen new children have joined our family, and their laughter fills our homes. Seven new homes were built as each one welcomed a new family. With each new life, each new home, our strength grows, our fields yield more bountifully, and our community thrives.”
The crowd murmurs in agreement, their eyes on the girls who stand before them. The Chevrain continues, speaking of the village’s abundance, the harvest, and the bonds forged over time. “Today, these young women, who have grown among us as our daughters and nieces, will now stand before you as women, ready to take their proper place within our village.”
Then, one by one, the Chevrain calls each girl’s name. Each girl steps forward, cheeks flushed with pride, anticipation, and a pounding in her heart. She gives a respectful nod to her family and the villagers who raised her, met by cheers from the crowd. When it’s Rose’s turn, her eyes scan for her family—and she finds them easily while there, beside her sister, she spots Acker, smiling back at her.
His smile causes her to blush a little. Though he’s far away, she can see he’s dressed with care: his tunic immaculately clean, his hair smoothed back, and his gaze fixed intently on her. For a brief, fragile moment, their eyes meet, and Rose feels warmth flush through her from her face to her fingertips. In that moment, she almost feels as if he’s seeing her truly for the first time, as she stands before everyone as a young woman, no longer just the village girl.
Once all the girls have been introduced, the Chevrain speaks again about the strength of the village, the richness of their lands, and their hopes for the future. Soon, the music begins again, and the fathers step out of the crowd to join their daughters. This dance marks the last time a father will hold his daughter as a child; after this, he will release her hand as a woman, free to choose whom she might want to share her life with. Though she tried, Rose couldn't help herself from glancing at Acker.
The Chevrain steps forward and gently takes Iana’s hand, honoring her with a father’s presence for the dance. Rose’s own father had considered sitting this dance out due to his condition, with the Chevrain offering to take his place, but Rose had insisted otherwise. After all, her father was still alive and well. Rowan, though hesitant, was glad he’d agreed.
Together with his wife he approached his daughter, tears glistened in his eyes as he took her hand. He left his cane to his wife, who smiled at the scene before taking his staff turned cane back into the crowd with her. Standing there on one leg, the father held onto his daughter with a quiet pride.
The frame drum picks up a lively rhythm, and lyres and harps add playful, warm notes as the father-daughter dance begins. Fathers and daughters twirl and laugh, their steps moving in harmony with tradition. Only Rose and Rowan remain mostly still, swaying softly to the music, savoring each moment in this small, powerful dance.
As they swayed, Rowan looked down at Rose, his eyes warm with pride and tenderness. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Your mother and I… we’ll always be here for you. No matter how much you grow, no matter where life takes you, you’ll never have to carry anything alone.”
Rose’s eyes softened, and she leaned into the gentle strength of his hold. “I know, Dad. But this is the start of my life.” She couldn’t help but smile. There was a powerful truth to those words.
They were good parents, always ensuring both she and Iris were cared for, even if she had often stood in her sister’s shadow, wearing hand-me-downs, including today’s dress. But now she understood—she was no less important. Her life was beginning, in her own way. “Besides, I feel like I should be the one taking care of you and Mom. Lord Armeric’s support won’t last forever.”
Rowan snorted. “That man isn’t taking care of this family. Sure, his coin helps, and without it…” He trailed a hand through her hair, brushing the flowers. “But I gave a leg for his son. I doubt he’d abandon us any time soon.”
Rose smiled. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. Still, soon enough though, I’ll have a family of my own. And I doubt Ack—uh, my prospective husband—would dare abandon his wife’s family.”
Rowan’s hands tightened slightly. “Don't say that” he quietly begged. “I don’t care what anyone says,” he muttered. “You’re still my little girl. I’m just now getting used to the idea of Iris getting married.”
Rose blinked. “Iris is getting married?”
Rowan scowled. “That bastard proposed today. It was about time to. Ugh, still. I still don’t agree.”
Rose could only stare, her mind racing with questions she didn’t have time to ask. The song ended, signaling the symbolic time to part ways with her father. Now was the moment she’d been looking forward to most. As her mother brought the cane back and the two of them left back into the crowed. Her heart quivered with excitement as her gaze sought him out.
Her breath caught. His tall, solid frame radiated effortless grace; each movement exuded a quiet confidence that seemed to draw every eye to him.
His dark hair, combed back with care, caught the evening light, accentuating the strong angles of his face—his sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes that held a mystery known only to her. He was her oldest friend, and after tonight…perhaps something more.
The scent of aconite drifted toward her, familiar and comforting, as if calling her to him. It was the flower that embodied his soul: earthy and grounding, yet tinged with an air of mystery. She smiled, savoring the aroma, feeling its quiet strength anchor her in this moment.
As she breathed it in, their eyes met across the space between them, a flicker of recognition sparking through the air. In that instant, something electric and unspoken passed between them, a promise hidden in the depth of his gaze. It was thrilling and terrifying all at once, and her heart pounded with a pull she couldn’t resist. She realized she had never felt more drawn to anyone.
Soon enough, he would walk over to her—the dance between potential suitors was a formality, a symbolic introduction for those ready to marry. A sort of meet cute, but for some reason, he didn’t move. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching out as she waited, heart pounding. Another young man noticed her hesitation and began walking toward her, seizing the opportunity. Yet all Acker did was smile at her from a distance, standing beside her sister. Gifting her with only a wave.
That was when she saw it—the flower. Not on his lapel, but pinned to hers. There it rested over Iris’s heart, the promise she had been expecting all day. A familiar ache settled deep within her, as if life itself had quietly reminded her of her place, where her dreams always seemed to slip just out of reach, claimed by the one meant to have them all along.
Her breath caught as the realization settled in, an undeniable chill sweeping away whatever fragile warmth she had thought was hers on this day.