Chapter LXII: Red
Isabella gathered her confidence and left her room, promising herself to enjoy the festivities despite the other girls’ pettiness. As she walked down the hallways, she kept her head high and her pace steady, determined not to let anyone see her dismay.
When she passed in front of her winter garden, a familiar figure caught her eye—the woman in the brown dress, Elara, the new gardener. Curiosity piqued, Isabella entered the garden. The soothing scent of flowers and the gentle rustling of leaves provided a welcome respite from her earlier frustrations.
The woman was tending to a brand new bed of red roses, her hands deftly working the soil and placing each bloom with care. Isabella approached her quietly, not wanting to startle her.
"Those are beautiful," Isabella said softly, her voice carrying a note of appreciation and melancholy.
The woman looked up, her eyes widening slightly in surprise before she offered a warm smile. "T-Thank you, my lady. I thought they would add a nice touch to your garden. Red roses are very difficult to find around here. They came a long way… But they’re gorgeous, aren’t they?"
Isabella studied her for a moment, trying to place where she had seen her before and why she seemed so familiar. "I’ve seen you before, haven't I?"
The woman nodded. "Yes, my lady, probably. My name is Elara. I’m one of the new gardeners. I was assigned to personally take care of your winter garden."
Isabella tried to say she had seen Elara way before, perhaps even before she arrived at the palace, but the words caught in her throat. She gave up, not wanting to push the conversation further. Instead, she turned her attention to the vibrant red roses, their deep crimson petals vivid against the greenery. They were unmistakably Allendorian, a poignant reminder of her family and her homeland.
The red Allendorian rose was the symbol of her dynasty, a legacy of strength and resilience. As she admired the flowers, something ignited within her—a sense of purpose, a burning desire to reclaim a part of herself that had been subdued for too long. It was a dangerous feeling, one that might put her in trouble, but it was stronger than her, insistent and unyielding.
She knew what she had to do, even if there were consequences.
Isabella hesitated for a moment, then looked at Elara with a mixture of regret and determination. "I'm sorry, Elara."
Elara paused in her work, looking up at Isabella with a puzzled expression. "Sorry? For what, my lady?"
Isabella took a deep breath, her voice steady but filled with resolve. "I'm going to destroy this rosebed."
The king reclined on his throne, savoring the heady taste of wine as he watched the festivities unfold below him. His concubines danced gracefully, their movements fluid and seductive, each one a vision of pure beauty, a symbol of his power. Yet, despite their allure, none of them compared to Isabella. It was a new and unsettling feeling for him, this fierce longing for a single woman, a sensation that both thrilled and unnerved him.
For the first time in his life, he felt truly captivated by someone, consumed by an intensity he had never known. He enjoyed the passion she ignited within him but feared the vulnerability it brought. Sometimes, when he watched her from afar through a window or so close in his bed, he struggled to remind himself that she was a slave of his harem, a captive princess who was only spared in the war to serve him. But he loved seeing her happy, he loved having her around, he loved how he felt cherishing her and spoiling her, tending to her needs. Something inside of him urged to treat her like a queen, even though she wasn’t one.
The king’s thoughts wandered, wondering where Isabella was and why she hadn't yet joined the celebration. He considered that maybe she didn’t want to be around with his other concubines, he knew she was jealous. But would she miss the festival just because of this? Suddenly, the music faltered and conversations hushed as all eyes turned toward the grand staircase. There she was, descending gracefully, a vision that stole the breath of everyone present.
Isabella wore a stunning red dress, adorned with red roses from head to toe.
After being captivated and mesmerized by Isabella's beauty, the king's eyes narrowed as he took in the meaning of her attire. She was adorned with red roses, the unmistakable symbol of Allendor. Anger surged through him, momentarily eclipsing his admiration. What was she trying to convey with that? She was no longer the princess of Allendor; her kingdom had been conquered by him. He had destroyed their royalty, crushed their resistance, and claimed her as his own.
She was his concubine, a war prisoner. How dare she sport her fallen dynasty's symbol so boldly?
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