Chapter 39: A Crown of Wilted Flowers

Chapter 39: A Crown of Wilted Flowers [Lavinia’s POV] It’s been two days. And the palace has been... too busy. Too loud. Too fast. People keep coming and going—nobles in thick robes and fancy boots, their faces pale like they’d seen ghosts. Some were shouting. Some were whispering. Papa’s eyebrows always stay low, his jaw tight, like he is chewing something bitter. I heard some things. Not everything. Just... bits. They said someone attacked the Everhart estate. Not bandits. Not rebels. They said it was from another empire. A real, proper enemy. Someone tried to shake Papa’s empire by hitting something strong. And that strong thing... was the Everharts. And Grand Duke Regis? He still hasn’t woken up. He lies there like a sleeping statue. Pale and still and too quiet. I peeked once—just a little peek—and I saw a healer light dancing over his chest, like a candle flame that refused to go out. Whereas Osric’s wounds have healed, physically. But mentally...he looks broken. He doesn’t laugh anymore. He doesn’t boss around me anymore. He only says one thing, again and again. "I have to go to sword training." Even when there’s a bandage peeking under his collar. It’s like he wants to disappear into fighting. Maybe if he swings his sword enough, he’ll forget how scared he was. Thankfully, Grandpa Gregor came. He stormed in like thunder and wrapped Osric in his big arms. Not like a knight. Not like a soldier. Like a grandpa. He didn’t let Osric run. Just held him until he cried. Osric may be the male lead of this novel, but we all know the truth. Nothing is more tragic than being the lead of the story. Everyone thinks being the protagonist means shining brightly, winning battles, and being praised. But that’s only on the surface. Deep down, the leads are always bleeding. Always breaking. Always forced to smile when they want to scream. Their lives are made of pain wrapped in destiny. I may have changed a little part of the story... I didn’t let Grand Duke Regis die and didn’t let Osric inherit too much grief at this age. But... I couldn’t stop everything. I couldn’t stop Osric from being traumatized. Now the boy is crying in Grandpa Gregor’s arms—that wasn’t a hero. Not some male protagonist of some novel. He was just a child. An eight-year-old boy who watched his father bleed out in front of him. He was just a kid who needed someone to say, "It’s okay to be scared." And that’s what Grandpa was doing. Healing a child who couldn’t speak his pain out loud. Who clenched his fists so tightly they trembled. And I just watched. Because I didn’t know how to help. Watched him cry. Watched Grandpa Gregor gently rock him back and forth, whispering in that low, deep voice that sounded like safety, "It’s okay. It’s okay. Everything is going to be fine." Then came a knock on the door. A guard entered, bowed low, and said, "My lord, His Majesty has summoned you to the throne room." Grandpa Gregor nodded and gently put Osric down on the couch. "I’ll be back soon, okay?" His voice was softer than I had ever heard it. The voice of a man who wasn’t just a war hero or a general but a grandfather who knew what love was. Osric sniffled and nodded without meeting his eyes. Then Grandpa turned to me. He smiled—one of those tired, kind smiles that felt like a warm blanket in winter—and walked over until he was right in front of me. He bent down to my level and asked, "Can I make a request, Princess?" I nodded, even though my throat felt tight. "Can you take care of Osric? Help him calm down?" I looked at Osric. Still curled in on himself, his back hunched, like he was trying to shrink small enough to disappear. I nodded again. "I will." "Thank you, my Princess." He gave my hair a gentle ruffle and stood up, heavy boots silent as he walked to the door. Then he was gone. And it was just the two of us, Nanny and Marella. Well... Four, if you counted Nanny and Marella standing quietly by the door like statues made of concern. I looked up at Nanny. She gave me a small nod—the kind that said, Go on, try. So I did. I stepped down from the couch and walked over to Osric. He didn’t look up. His fingers were twisted in the hem of his shirt, knuckles white. So I reached out and gently took his hand in mine. "Let’s go out," I said softly. Osric didn’t move. "Lavi... can we just stay here? I don’t want to play." "I’m not asking to play." That made him look at me, just a little. So I kept going. "Let’s go get some fresh air." Not to laugh. Not to run around or pretend everything was fine. Just to breathe because he needed it. Because he needed it. *** Palace Garden, And now... here we are. In the garden. Where I, Princess Lavinia Devereux—noble, elegant, majestic (and not very good at flower crowns)—am struggling very hard to make one just for Osric. Ughhhh... I keep messing up. My hands are too small, or maybe the flowers are too stubborn. Either way, it’s a disaster. Meanwhile, Nanny, wow. Just look at her. She’s over there weaving petals like some kind of flower queen. It’s unfair. As always, I knew...my nanny is a pro. That’s why I won’t give up. No way. So I try again. I add some different colored flowers... okay, yes, they look kind of... half-dead. Maybe they wilted because I squished them too hard. But still! I twist and fold and tuck them in. And then— "Ta-da!" I throw my arms up dramatically. Marella claps. "Wow, Princess, you finally did it!" I sniffled proudly. Of course I did it. Sure, it looks like half of it survived a battlefield and the other half is hanging on for dear life—but still. I did it. Then I turned to Osric, who was still sitting on the bench like a gloomy puppy. I ran to him. "Osric..." I called. He looked up at me. And then, without a word, I plopped the flower crown right on his head. He flinched. "Lavi... what is this?" "It’s a cheerful flower crown," I said with a grin, reaching up to fix it so it sat properly on his head. And when I looked at him again— Wahh...He’s so beautiful. Even with puffy eyes and messy hair and a half-dead crown, he looked like one of those soft, sad princes from fairytales. Then, he tilted his head, confused. "But why are you giving me this?" "So... that you get cheered," I said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Osric didn’t say anything. "And..." I added, "I hope you grow so strong like Papa and beat all the bad people." Osric looked at me and went quiet again. The wind brushed through the flowers, gentle and warm. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, "...What if I’m not strong like your papa?" His voice cracked, just a little. I blinked and smiled with confidence. "You will, I know." I said that again, and then a little teeny-tiny smile appeared on his lips. "Thank you, lavi." I smiled and Then— "...but I think your flower crown is dying." I gasped. "Rude!" He chuckled this time, and maybe my flower crown was half-dead and hanging sideways on his head, but it was still shining. Because it made him smile. Goal: Achieved. But just as I was about to proudly brag about my healing powers (and maybe ask Nanny for cookies as a reward), something caught my eye. A group of knights—fast, sharp, and serious—were walking down the path toward the throne room. Their armor was black as night. Every step they took sounded like thunder wrapped in silk. "Oh my god," Marella gasped beside me, eyes wide. "Black Knights?" Nanny stood, a little straighter than usual. Her face was calm, but her hands stopped moving. "Looks like Lord Ravick is back." "Ravick?" I mumbled, tilting my head. I knew about the Black Knights. Everyone did. They were like the hidden sword of the Empire—dangerous, silent, powerful. They didn’t guard balls or chase down petty thieves. They showed up when something serious—really serious—was about to happen. My eyes flicked to them again. And then I saw one of the men at the front, walking like he didn’t need the world to make space—because it already did. Tall. Straight-backed. His silver hair looked like it could cut steel, and his blue eyes were cold. Not the sad kind of cold like Osric’s lately, but the sharp kind, like winter wind. The kind that warned you not to get too close. He didn’t look left or right. Didn’t stop to greet anyone. He just kept walking. Was that man Ravick? Maybe. Maybe not. But something in my bones whispered—yes. Still... was he ever even mentioned in the novel? Maybe once. A tiny line. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of presence. Some passing comment like, "Lord Ravick will handle it." And that was it. A background character. A name, a shadow. But now...? Now he was here. And he was walking into the throne room like the world owed him answers. Which means—something is happening. Something big. I looked at the path they’d come from, then back at the grand golden doors they disappeared into. And my heart—just a little—thudded faster and understood one thing very, very clearly: There’s going to be a war. Papa’s pissed. Like, really pissed. So pissed that he called in the man with the winter eyes and dressed his knights in black, and he’s ready to strike first—to attack the kingdom that dared to hurt his people. And suddenly... Even the warm spring wind in the garden felt colder.