The echo of Verian’s threats faded, leaving behind a silence far more chilling than the noise. Danuta stared into the dark, a cold ache settling in her chest. The corridor, recently filled with the clatter of retreating boots, now seemed impossibly vast and empty. But she was not alone. Behind her, the ruined door to the West Wing sagged on its hinges, a gaping maw into the uncertain. Her gaze drifted to her palm, a thin, crimson line bisecting the skin, still stinging. The monster had licked it clean, but the wound remained a stark reminder of her choice, and his vulnerability. She pushed through the splintered timbers, the cool air within carrying the faint scent of damp earth and something wild, animalistic. The room was a disaster, overturned furniture and claw marks scarring the walls. In the centre, slumped against a fallen armoire, was Ziven. He was human again, his face pale and drawn, a sheen of sweat on his brow. His clothes were torn, exposing a lean expanse of shoulder and chest, but his eyes, though heavy-lidded, held an unmistakable clarity, a deep, weary sorrow. Danuta knelt beside him, her heart aching at the sight of his exhaustion. “Ziven,” she murmured, her voice soft. He flinched, then looked at her, his gaze dropping to her injured hand. A flicker of distress crossed his features. “You’re hurt,” he rasped, his own hand lifting tentatively. It hovered an inch from hers, trembling slightly. “Because of me.” “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to infuse her tone with reassuring lightness. “A scratch.” She took his hand, her touch firm, pulling it gently towards her palm. She guided his calloused thumb over the cut, showing him it was superficial. “See? It’s healing already.” His brow furrowed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb moved with excruciating tenderness over the crimson line. His touch was a revelation, a stark contrast to the ferocity she had witnessed moments ago. He looked up, his grey eyes searching hers, a vulnerability she hadn't seen before laid bare. “You... you stood between us,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “You protected me.” “You are my family, Ziven,” she replied, the truth settling in her heart with a quiet certainty. “And you are the Duke of Kresnik Spire. You deserve protection.” His lips parted, a silent gasp escaping him. His hand tightened around hers, not painfully, but with an intense desperation. “No,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Not because of duty. Not because of title. Tell me... tell me it was not only duty.” His gaze burned into hers, pleading for an honesty that mirrored her own. “It wasn’t,” she admitted, her voice steadying. “I care for you, Ziven. More than I ever thought possible. I…” She paused, the words forming a fragile bridge between them. “I love you.” The confession hung in the air, heavy and true. A profound relief washed over his face, softening the harsh lines of exhaustion. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, and she felt the tremor that ran through him. “And I you, Danuta,” he whispered, his voice rough with unshed tears. “More than life. More than sanity. It terrifies me, the depth of it.” He pulled back slightly, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs gently stroking her cheekbones. “Which is why you cannot do it.” Her brow furrowed. “Do what?” “Sacrifice yourself,” he stated, his voice firm despite its tremor. “To break the curse. The journal… it speaks of such a thing. A willing sacrifice of true love.” His eyes, filled with a desperate conviction, met hers. “I forbid it. I would rather live forever a monster, forever a prisoner to the moon’s whims, than live one moment knowing your light was extinguished for my sake. I would rather endure this torment than lose you.” His declaration, so absolute, so selfless, brought tears to her own eyes. She couldn’t speak, merely nodding, accepting his impossible condition for now. The immediate battle was over, but the war for his life, and perhaps hers, had just begun. The sting in her palm drew her attention to the cold drifting off the courtyard stones. She rose, pulling Ziven gently to his feet. “We will find another way,” she vowed, her voice resolute. “There has to be another way.” She spent the following morning searching the estate’s archives, poring over ancient texts and dusty ledgers, but found no mention of the crimson blossom. The library had yielded nothing beyond general botanical treatises. The rose, a vibrant splash of blood-red against the monochrome winter landscape, remained an enigma. Its unusual appearance, coupled with its connection to Ziven’s transformation, gnawed at her. After a sparse midday meal, Danuta made her way to the greenhouses, a glass-domed structure nestled against the milder southern slope of the estate. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp earth and verdant growth, a welcome reprieve from the chill of the mansion. She found the head gardener, a wizened man named Eldrin, tending to a row of delicate orchids. His back was bent with years of toil, his gnarled hands moving with surprising dexterity. “Good afternoon,” she greeted him, trying to keep her voice light. He straightened slowly, his eyes, the colour of faded lake ice, blinking at her. “Your Grace,” he acknowledged, his voice raspy. “A pleasure to see you amongst the plants. It’s rare for the mistress of the Spire to visit this corner.” “I have a question, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me,” Danuta began, choosing her words carefully. “I noticed a… peculiar rose in the gardens the other night. Blood-red petals, blooming out of season. Have you encountered such a variety before?” The old gardener's weathered face creased into a deeper frown. He wiped his hands on his apron. “Ah. The Moonpetal. I had hoped it would remain dormant this winter.” He looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before lowering his voice. “My family has served the Radomirs for generations, Your Grace. We know the land, and its secrets, better than most. The Moonpetal Rose is one such secret.” He led her to a quiet corner, away from the younger gardeners. “It’s tied to the curse, you see. Blooms only under the full moon, when… when the Duke is afflicted. It’s not a common blossom, nor is it a benevolent one.” He paused, his gaze distant. “There’s an old book, kept hidden. My grandfather showed it to me when I was a boy. Not for breaking the curse, mind you. Nothing can do that, save for what the old tales speak of.” He shuddered faintly. “But it speaks of a… temporary solace.” He disappeared into a potting shed, returning moments later with a small, leather-bound volume, its covers worn smooth with age. He placed it into her hands. The pages within were brittle, filled with faded script and intricate, hand-drawn illustrations of plants. “A potion,” he explained, tapping a specific page. “Brewed from the petals of the Moonpetal Rose itself. It won’t break the curse, no. But for a short time, it grants… lucidity. Control. During the change. It allows the Duke to be himself, even in the beast’s form. To think, to reason, to command.” He looked at her, his expression grim. “But it’s fleeting, Your Grace. A mere breath of peace, before the wildness reclaims him.” Blood hummed in Danuta's ears. Lucidity, control – even for a brief time, it was more than they had hoped for. A way for Ziven to fight, to protect himself, perhaps even to strategize. It was not a cure, but it was a weapon, a shield. A chance. She clutched the book to her chest, a surge of desperate hope blossoming within her. She thanked the gardener, her mind already racing with possibilities. This wasn’t a sacrifice, this was a battle plan. A way to reclaim a piece of Ziven. She had to tell him. She had to show him this. With this, they might not be able to break the curse, but they could fight back. She hurried out of the greenhouse, the heavy, ancient book a promise in her hands, her pace quickening with each step towards the West Wing, where Ziven still recuperated. The fleeting nature of the potion, its temporary reprieve, made the urgency all the more pressing. They had no time to lose. His words echoed in her mind: “A mere hour of peace.” Could an hour be enough to turn the tide?

The Gardener's Secret