The Reverie of a Mother

The palace conservatory was not a place for grand declarations or dramatic affairs. It was a world of green silence and filtered light, where the scent of jasmine and fresh soil mingled in the air and every footstep was softened by mossy paths. Ivy trailed down from glass-paned ceilings, and exotic blossoms from faraway lands bloomed in quiet brilliance between rows of marble benches.

It was here, away from the gilded galleries and glittering ballrooms, that Liora found herself walking beside Crown Princess Seraphine.

The guards had stopped at the entrance, as instructed.

The princess walked without ceremony, no attendants, no fanfare, just the soft rustle of her gown and the distant call of a bird somewhere near the upper branches.

"You don't like court life, do you?" Seraphine asked after several minutes.

Liora hesitated, surprised by the casual tone. "It's… beautiful. But also exhausting."

Seraphine chuckled softly. "A perfect summary. Like living in a painting someone else is constantly repainting. Flatter your allies, outmaneuver your rivals, and try not to let the brush slip."

Liora looked up at the taller woman. "But you thrive in it."

"I survive it," Seraphine corrected gently. "There's a difference."

They walked in silence again. The path curved into a quieter alcove, where a weeping fig tree arched protectively over a circular bench of smooth stone.

Seraphine sat, folding her hands in her lap, and gestured for Liora to do the same. "Sit. I didn't ask you here for pleasantries."

Liora obeyed, careful to smooth her skirts and sit straight.

Seraphine studied her in the hush that followed. Her eyes, silver-grey and clear, seemed to pierce straight through Liora's carefully trained posture.

"I've been watching you."

Liora swallowed.

"You're not like the others," Seraphine continued. "Most girls your age are busy dreaming of dresses, titles, or husbands. You're dreaming of something else."

"I'm not dreaming," Liora said quietly. "Not anymore."

A faint smile flickered at the corners of the princess's mouth. "Then perhaps you're seeing. That's even rarer."

Liora frowned faintly, unsure where this was going.

Seraphine leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, gaze intent. "You see people not by their title, but by their intent. That's a rare gift. And a dangerous one."

"I'm not—" Liora began, but Seraphine cut her off gently.

"I'm not accusing you. I'm offering you something."

Liora blinked.

"In this world, power does not always wear a crown. Sometimes it wears silence. Sometimes it stands in corners and listens. You have a place here, Liora, if you want it."

The air felt suddenly thinner, tighter.

"A place?" Liora repeated.

"As my eyes and ears," Seraphine said simply. "Not a spy. Not a servant. An observer. A quiet ally. You would have no formal title, no oath. But you would see, hear, and learn, discreetly."

Liora stared at her.

"Why me?"

"Because," Seraphine said, leaning back, "you don't hunger for power. You hunger for safety. And people like that, people who guard instead of grasp, are the only ones I trust with truth."

Liora lowered her gaze. "And what would I do with this… truth?"

"When the tide rises," Seraphine said softly, "you'll need to stand somewhere. And you'll want to know which rocks are real and which are just foam."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft murmur of water trickling from a fountain nearby.

"I don't know if I can do that," Liora admitted at last.

"You don't have to choose today," Seraphine said, rising. "I only ask that you keep your eyes open. That you watch who moves in shadows and who casts them."

She began walking away, then paused.

"I see the same ache in you that I saw in Lady Amalia, you know. That desire to protect what's dear, even if it costs everything."

Liora's breath caught.

"She would be proud of you."

And with that, Seraphine left.

Liora remained on the bench long after the princess had gone.

She stared at the leaves above her, feeling both heavier and lighter. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.

A quiet ally.

Eyes and ears.

It sounded like nothing. But it was not nothing. It was influence without name, knowledge without armor, danger without defense.

And yet…

She thought of the way nobles circled her like vultures in silk.

She thought of Hadrian, always watching, always smiling with teeth.

She thought of the children, Mathilde's soft hand in hers, Elias dozing beside her, Annalise snapping at spoiled girls, Leopold's quiet questions, Michael's steady, too-wise eyes.

And she thought of Lady Amalia, writing late into the night, hands ink-stained and shaking, eyes clear with purpose.

That evening, she returned to the Edelhardt guest suite.

Michael was reading aloud to the younger ones in the sitting room, some story about a clever fox who tricked a king. The younger children were nestled close, half-listening, half-sleeping.

When Liora entered, Mathilde leapt up and threw her arms around her waist.

"You were gone forever," she whined.

Liora smiled and stroked her hair. "I had a long walk."

"Did the princess braid your hair?" Elias asked hopefully.

"No," Liora chuckled. "But she gave me something to think about."

Michael raised a brow but said nothing.

Annalise yawned dramatically. "I hope it wasn't another etiquette lesson. If I have to curtsey to one more dusty old count, I'll fall over."

"It wasn't etiquette," Liora said softly.

Then she sat down beside them, drawing Mathilde onto her lap, and leaned into the moment, into the warmth and weight of the little bodies she had helped raise, into the trust they gave her without question.

That night, she returned to her room and sat at her writing desk, lit by a single candle.

She pulled out a blank page.

She wrote only two words:

I see.

Then she folded the paper, slid it between the pages of a book Seraphine had given her days ago, and placed it back on her shelf.

Not a vow. Not a promise.

But a beginning.