Chapter 129: Whispers, Fire, and Threads of Fate

Chapter 129: Whispers, Fire, and Threads of Fate [Lavinia’s POV] [Imperial Garden—10 Minutes into Operation Forbidden Garden Romance] "THEON?!" I gasped so loudly I startled a sparrow into cardiac arrest. Ravick clapped a hand over my mouth. "Princess—quiet!" But it was too late. I’d already declared a national emergency. I slapped his hand away and peeked again around the cherry blossom tree, eyes squinted like I was peering into a scandalous novella. Teacher Evelyn was still there. Still blushing. Still giggling. Still standing way, way too close to Theon. And he was smiling at her. That’s right—smiling. Not smirking. Not raising one skeptical eyebrow. A real, actual, almost-boyish smile. I was scandalized. Positively scandalized. "I knew it," I whispered to Ravick. "There was no way she left the study room in that much of a hurry just because she has to reach her estate soon." "Princess," Ravick warned softly, "we should go. This is... private." "Private?" I turned to him, offended. "Ravick. She’s a royal tutor. He’s an emperor’s personal assistant. This is basically state business." Ravick gave me a look that said: No, it isn’t. I gave him a look that said: You cannot stop me. We peeked again. Teacher Evelyn had her hands clasped in front of her like a maiden from a love poem. Theon reached out and tucked a strand of her pink cotton-candy hair behind her ear. My soul exited my body. "HE DID THE HAIR TUCK," I hissed like an ancient spirit witnessing a royal scandal unfold. "HE TUUUUCKED THE HAAAAIR, RAVICK." I was barely holding myself together. My entire soul had just been personally slapped by destiny. My heart was doing somersaults. My knees had betrayed me. My brain was singing operatic betrayal music on loop. "That’s practically a marriage proposal in ancient court language!" I gasped, clutching Ravick’s sleeve like we were watching a forbidden love drama unravel live, uncensored, and in 4K. Ravick sighed, his expression torn between deep shame... and deeper curiosity. "Princess, we really shouldn’t—" "Shhh!" I threw a dramatic hand in front of his face like I was a tragic heroine silencing a servant during an elopement scene. "This is the most important mission of our lives, Ravick. We are witnesses. No—guardians—of forbidden imperial romance!" But before I could dramatically dive into another bush for better surveillance— I was airborne. I yelped. Like, actually yelped. "WHA—WHAT IS HAPPENING?!" I flailed and hissed, limbs spaghetti-ing in every direction. The ground was no longer beneath me. My feet were dangling. The roses were shrinking. I looked down in a panic and saw Ravick. Holding me. Like a sack of mildly offended potatoes. He had me hoisted under one arm like I was light luggage and he was late for a royal train. "RAVICK?!" I hissed again. "We’re leaving," he said calmly, already tiptoeing backward like a rogue butler escaping a scandalous ballroom. "WAIT—WAIT—TRAITOR!" I wailed, squirming like a chaotic shrimp. "I AM STILL COLLECTING EVIDENCE—THE EMPIRE HAS A RIGHT TO KNOW!" "You’re ten," Ravick said grimly, dashing through the hedges with the grace of a man trying very hard not to drop a squirming toddler-empress. "EMOTIONAL AGE IS IRRELEVANT!" I hissed. "THEON TUUUUCKED HER HAAAAIR!" "You also once cried because your soup had too many croutons," he grunted as he dodged a statue. "That was one time! And they were soggy!" We zipped past a couple of startled gardeners, who froze mid-rake as I sailed by like a royal comet of indignation. "PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!" I shrieked, kicking the air. "This is abuse of power! I am going to file a very dramatic complaint!" "You’re literally the only one I answer to," Ravick replied. "...Then I DEMAND you listen to me!" "No." "I’ll knight Marshi in your place." "That’s a giant beast." "He has better emotional range than you!" "He also ate a pillow this morning." "IT WAS A SYMBOLIC SACRIFICE!" Ravick sighed again, clearly regretting every life decision that led him to this moment. He finally stopped near the hallway back to my chambers and—thankfully—gently set me down like a grumpy sack of royal dignity. I immediately dropped to my knees, face to the sky. "You’ve ruined it. I was so close to uncovering the courtship secrets of our generation! I was going to write poetry! Gossip scrolls! Possibly a tragic ballad!" Ravick didn’t even blink. "You were about to fall into a bush and possibly startle Theon into a combat stance." "EVEN BETTER!" I cried. "That would’ve made Chapter three of Lovers Under Lock & Scroll." Marshi arrived behind us, tongue lolling, tail wagging like he’d just witnessed the most entertaining royal soap opera of the season. Then Ravick turned to me with that maddeningly composed expression. "Princess, please... return to your chamber. Or else—" he paused meaningfully "—I will have no choice but to inform His Majesty..." I blinked. He leaned closer and finished calmly, "...that you were hiding behind shrubbery, spying on two adults blushing and whispering sweet nothings under royal sunlight." I froze. My entire soul froze. Even Marshi stopped wagging. "You wouldn’t," I whispered, horrified. Ravick blinked once. Slowly. Like a man who would absolutely do exactly that. Damn it. If Papa finds out, he’ll—he’ll BAN DATING! He’ll call it a security threat! He’ll pass a Royal Decree of Eternal Singlehood! He’ll assign government chaperones. Personal romance guards. Emotional security squads. There’ll be love licenses. LOVE. TAXES. And worst of all? I’ll become the villain in every palace love story ever told. Lavinia the Lurker. The Gossip Killer. The Royal Romance Reaper. Ugh... I can’t believe Ravick is behaving like my unofficial dad. The very tall, extremely annoying, smirking kind. I glanced at him. Yup. He was smirking. Smirking like the smug winner of a duel fought with honor, shame, and a bush full of regrets. I groaned, long and loud, tossing my arms into the air like a defeated playwright. "Fine. I’ll be in my chamber," I grumbled, stomping off with all the grace of a cat that had just been sprayed with cold water. "Studying. Like a tragic scholar princess, abandoned by gossip, betrayed by love, deprived of my birthright—drama." Ravick didn’t respond. But I could feel it. His victory aura was following me. Smug. Radiant. Judgy. I swear, next time I’m recruiting the royal pastry chef. That guy knows things. *** [Imperial Chamber—Afternoon, Several Snacks Later] Back in my room, I finally settled cross-legged on the soft rug, the book Papa gave me placed reverently before me like it held all the secrets of the world—which, to be fair, it might. The cracked leather cover gave off a faint scent of cinnamon and something older. Something... secret-y. Marshi lay nearby like a sleepy oven with paws, his tail swishing lazily, while Ravick had stationed himself by the door, arms crossed, looking like he was guarding the gateway to Mount Doom. "I can’t believe I was forcibly removed from an active romance plot," I mumbled dramatically, flipping open the ancient tome. "History better be worth it." The yellowed pages crackled softly beneath my fingers, the ink still sharp despite the age—elegant curling strokes and stern lines like they’d been written by a very serious man with a very dramatic quill. The title page read: Records of the Divine Companions: Observations by the First Emperor’s Assistant, Quillan of Argess. "Sounds boring," I muttered, unimpressed. Then flipped the page. The first entry was... strange. The beast appeared during a storm in the jungle. The Emperor touched its head—and the sky stopped howling. I believe it recognized him... as one of its own. No one knew where it came from. But it stayed. As though it always had. I frowned. "Well, I know that first emperor found Rakshar in the jungle. Wounded. But this says he wasn’t just found—he recognized him?" I turned another page, curiosity creeping in. The beast was named Rakshar. The Archmage has confirmed—Rakshar hatches from an egg. But not for just anyone. It waits. It waits for its chosen. The bond is not taught. It is not trained. It is fate. My gaze flicked to Marshi, who blinked at me, unfazed and slightly offended by the air. "Fated?" I murmured, voice low. "That means... me and Marshi...?" He yawned like a dramatic beast with nothing to prove and everything to keep secret. I flipped more pages: The Rakshar’s power does not lie in chaos... but in restraint. It will not display its strength unless provoked—unless its master’s life hangs by a thread or when his master needs it. And when it awakens, the world bends to its command. Fire is its language. Ash is its warning. It is not summoned by need. It is summoned by bond. My fingers froze mid-turn. The Rakshar and its master are mirrors—one born of fire, the other of flesh. They resemble each other not in form, but in soul. The room suddenly felt quieter. Heavier. Like the walls themselves were leaning in to listen. I looked back at Marshi, who was now wide awake, watching me with eyes that looked... older than they should be. I swallowed, heart thudding. "You’re so mysterious, aren’t you?" I whispered. He blinked slowly. Didn’t answer. Of course. I flipped to the next page. Then stopped. Midway down the parchment, scrawled in a more hurried, almost frantic handwriting: ...and it is said that the Rakshar possesses one strange ability—it has the ability to bend the thread of fate itself when the bond is strong enough. But at a price. I blinked. "...Ability to bend a fate?" I whispered. "What does that even mean?"