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(i.)
In Okhema, twilight always arrived gently. Spilling like pale ink across brick domes and golden-glassed windows. The city’s sharp lines softened beneath the night’s hush, but Aurora’s clinic still thrummed with life.
A young dromas with a splint on its hind leg whined restlessly in its nest of heated blankets, and Aurora sat cross-legged on the floor beside it, murmuring soothing words of comfort and various irrelevant facts: like how the wings of some subspecies could still twitch in dreams, long after injury.
She was used to being alone here, in the comfort of her practice. Not lonely, never truly. Just alone. The kind of aloneness that came when people waved at you in the street: at the market, or just passing by. Acknowledging, yes, but never stopping.
The kind that came when those same people smiled because they remembered your name, and then walked past without lingering. She didn’t mind. It left room for silence, and silence left room for thought.
Until tonight, when there was a knock at the frosted glass door.
(Mydei tended to knock, even after Aurora had spent time convincing him he was always welcomed in, just like anyone and everyone else is.)
Aurora didn’t have to look up to know who it was, for she felt it in the breath of air that followed him inside, the quiet tension his presence brought like a string drawn tight, but never loosened.
“Oh, close the door,” she said. “Please. It’s rather cold, and Atalanta has just gone to sleep.”
Mydei complied without comment, settling down beside her without ceremony. He was still dressed in his pale courtwear from whatever official thing he’d escaped to come here. His hand found hers without needing to ask.
“‘Lanta,” he began teasingly. “A mighty warrior’s name, for a…” he trailed off at the sharp look she gave him, though no malice was behind it.
“An even mightier droma.” He finished, recovering soundly.
Aurora laughed, and Mydei felt delighted that he had evoked such a sound from her.
They sat like that for a while. Their hands entwined lightly, fingertips brushing like stars too shy to collide.
“I thought you had something very important to discuss with the Heirs,” Aurora finally said.
“I did.”
She glanced at him sideways. “And now you don’t?”
Mydei didn’t answer. His expression was unreadable as ever, but he was staring at her hands now. At one of her nails, chipped from rushing a bandage wrap earlier. There was ink smudged on the curve of her palm from notes she’d scribbled onto herself during triage and forgotten to wash off.
“Lady Aglaea has said she’s going to finish that velvet line of yours next week,” he murmured suddenly. “She said you could come by, or rather, you should. I’d be a fool to query whether or not she misses you, and terribly.”
Aurora blinked. “Did she say that, or did you ask her to let me?”
He didn’t answer again. But his thumb kept moving in quiet, rhythmic circles against her wrist.
“So you did attend the meeting?”
The droma stirred, then sighed. Outside, the northern wind rattled the glass: stirring up the hot air of Aquila’s June, yet inside, Aurora felt cool. Like sitting near something dangerous that would never, ever hurt you. Warm, even.
“Yes, I did. Two travelers from a land I have yet to hear of joined us. If I didn’t know any better, I'd say they were lying for half of that briefing, whether of omission or not.”
Aurora frowned. “Don’t say that.”
Mydei fixed himself. “Alright. Forgive me, dearest. What I'm meaning to say is, I am curious as to what Lady Aglaea could have planned for them.”
He sat in thought for a moment, and Aurora sighed. They spent the rest of the evening in each other’s company, before it grew too late and they both retired for the night.
(ii.)
Aurora woke before the sun, or rather, to accompany it. “The sun rises for her,” as Lord Phainon liked to recite.
The horizon was still silver when her eyes blinked open, lashes heavy with sleep. For a moment, she didn’t remember what day it was.
Only that the breeze was cool through the open window, and the birds were already stirring, chirping between the slow trickle of the market’s stone fountain nearby.
And then she remembered. Ah. Her birthday. In the month of long days, and of growing.
She wasn’t expecting fanfare. Never did, not anymore. But the air still felt sweet. Like it remembered, even if no one else did.
She rose with a smile, wrapping herself in her favorite cardigan: embroidered on the sleeves with little stitched patterns Lady Aglaea had once let her try her hand at, messy but endearing, and padded barefoot across the wooden floors of her cottage.
The whole home was small and round, with soft-angled corners and shelves full of flower pots, herbal tinctures, and texts lined up with the uneven pride of someone who truly used them.
Outside her front door, nestled in the wicker of her porch chair, was a bundle of wildflowers and a folded letter sealed in wax.
She startled a little, breath caught in her throat, but not with fear. Far from it. The seal was familiar: a pressed swirl that Marvin had always said looked like a poorly drawn snail, but that Aurora insisted was charming.
She opened the letter with care. His voice, even in ink, was always so him.
Dear Aurora,
I haven’t lived before I met you, even though my heart doesn’t actually beat, since I’m not particularly animated. But I think you’ve animated me somehow in the way the music box hasn’t—in the way the music box couldn’t.
Sometimes it makes me wonder if music is found in others, like you, rather than just record players or instruments. And maybe you’re the best and only song I’ll ever sing to myself.
Happy birthday, Aurora.
May each age treat you nicer each year, and if all goes my way, I’ll be able to witness each one.
Signed,
Marvin
Aurora reread the letter three times before she set it down beside her tea mug, a smile curled into the collar of her sweater.
She pressed the wildflowers; dogwood milkdaisies, day lilies, and a single feather-lavender carnation bloom against her nose and inhaled deeply. They smelled like laughter and sun-warmed rain. And Marvin.
The rest of the morning passed lazily. She curled into her window seat with a medical journal she didn’t actually intend to read, nibbled on sweet red apples, and hummed softly to herself. Occasionally, a pang hit her chest: memories of past birthdays filled with too much food and noise and her mother’s persistent lipstick kisses.
She didn’t let herself fall too far into those thoughts. Just enough to let them hurt. Just enough to remember.
Then, around midday, came a gentle knock.
Aurora opened the door to find Hyacine grinning crookedly behind a large basket and a pink chimera perched like a hat on her shoulder.
“Is this the birthday girl’s house?” Hyacine asked, voice teasing.
Aurora gasped, then broke into giggles. “You brought a chimera!”
“I rescued a chimera,” Hyacine corrected, stepping inside with practiced ease. “From the bakery. He was about to steal an entire custard pie.”
“So he’s naughty, then. And you let him keep it?”
“Ah, I am no monster.”
The chimera chirped, seemingly in agreement, tail flicking behind it like it had won a duel.
Aurora guided Hyacine inside, and they both sat on the floor surrounded by tea cups, a half-sliced lemon loaf, and little cinnamon twists wrapped in wax paper.
They talked easily; about work, about stubborn patients, and about how earlier that week, Lord Phainon somehow mistook a wedding procession for a performance and crashed it in dramatic fashion.
“Are you doing anything later?” Hyacine asked mid-sip.
Aurora shook her head. “No. Just me and the sky tonight.”
Hyacine blinked, then gave a single thoughtful nod. Oh. Alright.”
They didn’t speak of it again. When the visit ended, Hyacine gave her a firm squeeze around the shoulders and left without drama, her chimera following reluctantly behind with both a cookie and a cinnamon twist in its mouth. Neither of which Aurora had given it, the little thief.
Aurora watched them go until they were small figures against the slow curve of the road, then turned back inside. Her home was quiet again. But not empty.
The letter was still on the table. The flowers were in a vase by the window. And she still had hours left to spend with the evening, and maybe, if she was lucky, someone else might come knocking, too.
(iii.)
The kitchen smelled like sunshine and sugar.
Aurora stood barefoot at the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the soft glow of the afternoon sun casting golden streaks across her flour-dusted cheeks.
She was midway through mixing her second lemon loaf of the day; not because she needed two, but because the first one was nearly gone and her hands felt restless.
The mixer hummed as she leaned in, carefully scraping down the bowl’s edges. She didn’t hear the front door creak open, but she did hear the telltale crash of it hitting the wall and the dramatic exhale that always followed.
“You know, you’re the only other person who doesn’t knock, you know,” she called without turning around.
Phainon pretended not to acknowledge the implications of what being the other person might mean.
“Knocking is for strangers and salesmen,” came the cheerful reply.
Aurora laughed as Phainon appeared in the doorway, grinning like he’d just stolen a parade float. She was hoping he hadn’t.
His hair was windswept, his coat hanging unevenly buttoned over a shoulder, and one arm cradled a tightly bound package while the other dragged a bundle of slightly crumpled flowers.
Before she could say another word, he swooped toward her and scooped her up with one arm — her feet lifted off the ground in a brief, dizzying whirl before he set her down again, still grinning.
“Happy birthday, Sunshine,” he said, beaming.
Aurora couldn’t help but smile back. “You’re tracking flour everywhere.”
“It’s ambiance.” He dropped the flowers on her table with theatrical flair. “They’re not from a rare grove or an icy cliff, but they were on sale, and they reminded me of you. So.”
She eyed the chaotic bouquet of peach-petaled blooms and dusty blue stalks with soft affection. “They’re perfect. And you?”
He held up the other gift — a rather larger, rectangular box wrapped tightly in waxed paper and tied with twine. “You’re not allowed to open this until tonight.”
Aurora raised a brow, suspicion dancing behind her grin. “That sounds like the kind of request someone makes when they know what’s inside might explode.”
“It won’t explode,” Phainon said quickly. Then hesitated. “Probably.”
She giggled and set the bowl down. “Do you want to stay? I was just about to put this one in the oven. I’ve got enough lemon loaf to feed a small council.”
He flinched, then coughed into his fist. “I—I would love to, truly, but I actually have to head out. There’s… a situation. Some foreign… travelers, yes. Big misunderstanding. Something about the attack earlier this week. Lady Aglaea is handling it, but I promised I’d help smooth it over as an Heir.“
Aurora blinked, tilting her head. “Lady Aglaea?” she repeated, her voice neutral but pointed.
Phainon’s smile faltered just slightly, then returned too brightly. “You know her. Regal. Intimidating, very lovely. She needs me there to wave my hands and say sparkly things.”
Aurora let the moment hang. The mixer hummed again in the background.
Then, with a shrug, she turned back to her batter. “Well. Don’t get too sparkly. That’s how you keep ending up in that journalist’s papers.”
“Please. I live in the footnotes.”
He grinned again, awkward but affectionate, and leaned over to tap her forehead gently with his knuckle. “Later tonight, alright? Don’t open the box early.”
“I won’t,” she promised. “If it explodes, I’d rather have witnesses.”
Phainon laughed all the way to the door, blowing her a dramatic kiss and whispered half-intelligible farewells before ducking outside and vanishing into the windblown afternoon.
Aurora stood still for a moment, spatula resting in her hand. She stared at the gift, at the strange bouquet, and then at the lemony batter waiting patiently to be poured.
IV.
The sun had dipped far enough behind the mountains that the shadows stretched long and golden across the floor. It wasn’t quite evening yet; not by any official hour, but for Aurora it was late enough.
Late enough to call it night. Late enough to open the mysterious gift that had been staring at her from the kitchen table for the past three hours.
She picked it up with both hands, eyeing the tightly bound twine and the cat-like wax seal impressed into the wrapping. Two pointed ears, a flick of a tail, and the faintest swirl of mischievous glitter embedded into the wax itself.
Aurora squinted at it. “This had better not be zagreus dust.” She said to no one in particular.
She’d never met Lady Cifera, only ever hearing murmurs: whispers of her illusions, her rumors, her smirking proximity to Lady Aglaea like the moon to a flame. Aurora didn’t know what to expect, but she prayed the box wouldn’t pounce. Or meow. Or disappear midair.
So she went outside to open it — just in case.
The second floor of her house held a small cemented garden ringed by sky-blue tiling and hung with planters full of trailing vines.
It overlooked the valley sloping into the brighter bustle of modern Okheman proper, and from here she could hear the distant clatter of some kind of festival prep beginning, though she didn’t know what for.
She sat cross-legged on the cool stone, took a steadying breath, and untied the package.
It didn’t explode.
Instead, the wrapping peeled back in gentle folds to reveal a gown. No, a dress. A work of living beauty. It was cut in the unmistakable style of her chosen region: Okheman (in nature) stitching patterns danced along the hems — but it had Lady Aglaea’s signature detailing in every line, from the elegant braid of gold thread at the waist to the meticulous pleats of the sheen lotus-petal skirt.
She held it up with trembling hands, the warm red ribbons fluttering in the breeze like silken sunlight. The bodice faded from a soft ivory to a pale blush, and the bottom bloomed into that unmistakable lotus shape: flaring, radiant, weightless.
Aurora’s heart squeezed.
She had yet to own anything like this.
With careful, reverent steps, she carried the dress back inside and laid it across the back of her couch. A small golden-inked envelope slipped from the box and landed beside it. She picked it up and opened it, brushing her fingers over the monogrammed, or rather painted, “A.”
The silk came from a merchant ship docked in the southern inlet. The ribbons are handmade from Kremnoan winter-lining, a rare weave. The lower fabric was donated by a preservationist from the Grove itself.
This commission came to me not through an audience, but by letter. A letter written in a Kremnoan dialect so tangled that even I struggled to decipher it. Still, the request was clear: something red-hued and unique. Something shaped like the bloom. Something that would remind her of the sun.
I did what I could. And then I sent it on its way.
Lord Phainon was gracious enough to deliver it in person. Thank him when you see him.
Aurora pressed the letter to her lips, giggling through a wave of flustered gratitude. Her cheeks were flushed with more than just surprise. She knew that dialect. Knew the way its grammar wound in on itself like a braided vine, full of old Kremnoan metaphors and spellings no one including the few locals used anymore.
There were only a handful of people who could write that way, and only one who ever wrote to her.
She turned the letter over and found a second note affixed to the back: a smaller slip of paper, scrawled in neat blocky ink:
Northwest Grove Tier — Florarium 3A. Nightfall.
Just an address. No signature. No flourish.
Aurora stared at it for a moment, tapping the page against her chin. Then her eyes widened with realization. Florarium 3A; one of the oldest flower gardens under Grove jurisdiction. Half-wild, barely maintained, but known for its lotus pond; few in existence.
She remembered it vaguely from her youth, having visited once during a particularly draining bout of homesickness.
He wants me to go there.
Without another thought, Aurora gathered the dress in her arms and padded toward her room. She slipped it on carefully, reverently, like it might fly away if she moved too fast.
When she looked in the mirror, she saw the petals of a flower in full bloom.
She smiled, softer than she had all day.
And then she stepped out the door, the red ribbons trailing behind her like the sun folding into dusk.
V.
It took roughly an hour to reach the grove.
Aurora walked slowly, one hand cradling the soft folds of her lotus-petaled skirt, the other brushing gently against nearby leaves or catching the wind when it stirred.
Though Okheman summers were characteristically hot and dry, the air that evening had turned unusually cool, humming with an almost electric stillness. Like something was waiting.
She didn’t know what she expected.
Or rather, she did, but she was trying not to think about it.
The walk took her through winding market paths and elevated hemisphere tunnels, past shuttered florist stalls and lanterns that blinked awake as twilight dipped the city in indigo hues.
She watched birds with long, silver feathers fly in lazy loops above the rooftops.
Fireflies; larger than usual, likely pollinated bioluminescent types flitted near her hands, and she whispered sweet nothings to them like they might carry messages to whoever had called her here.
Her steps grew slower the closer she got.
Please let him be there, a small voice whispered from somewhere deep inside. Please let it be real.
But that damned part of her; sharp, insistent, coiled like wire. It kept murmuring:
Or, maybe it’s not. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe it’s not for you at all.
Still, she kept going.
She climbed grassy staircases where vines curled like ribbons around the railings, passed bubbling clearwater canals lit from beneath by unseen crystals, and finally stepped onto a fountain elevator: a smooth disk of marble carried upwards on spiraling jets of water, her reflection rippling beneath her feet.
By the time she reached the garden, the sky had gone full velvet, and the moon was rising high and clean.
The florarium was nothing short of breathtaking.
Soft lanterns floated between the trees like captive stars, casting lazy glows over bioluminescent blooms and silver-petaled bushes.
The pond at the center reflected moonlight like glass, and scattered throughout the grove was a dusting of fluorescent pollen, trailing in spirals with the breeze.
And in the middle of it all, standing near a low stone platform set beneath an arch of hanging flowers, was him.
Prince Mydeimos, himself.
Aurora stopped in her tracks.
He was alone. Just him, just there: standing tall, his usual shining attire catching the soft light, though the heavy golden-spiked gauntlet he wore in battle was notably absent. She could see something before him, but couldn’t make out what it was.
He turned the moment she stepped into the light.
At first, his face shifted into something relieved. Then maybe shocked. And then something else entirely, an emotion Aurora couldn’t name, but knew was for her alone.
She stepped forward, and so did he, the space between them closing with every gentle footfall until he met her halfway.
Aurora tilted her head, smiling with just enough teasing in her voice to keep her nerves from overflowing.
“You did this for me?”
Mydei — stoic, cool-tempered, the tactician prince — smiled sheepishly. To anyone else, it might have looked like uncertainty. But she saw the quiet joy behind it, the affection tucked into the curve of his mouth.
“Well… it depends,” he said, tone low and warm. “Do you like it?”
She pretended to consider it, squinting up at him through thick lashes. “Oh, I don’t know,” she teased, voice light as air. “I suppose I’m fond of it…”
Mydei laughed, soft and quiet and utterly unlike the reputation that followed him. “Fond, huh.”
Aurora beamed, and he offered his hand without needing to ask.
She took it. His fingers curled around hers, gentle but secure.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said simply.
Her cheeks flushed brighter than the ribbons at her waist. “Well aren’t you one to talk,” she replied, biting back a smile.
He chuckled again, almost bashful. “No, no.”
They walked side by side to the platform, where a table had been set beneath a curved awning made of twisted vinewood and hanging lights.
On the table were plates of fruit, sparkling drinks, and in the very center: moon-shaped cakes, arranged in perfect arcs, candles waiting beside them.
Aurora gasped.
“Moon cakes?” she whispered, stepping closer.
She knew them instantly. Honey-drizzled, topped with sesame and a hint of almond dust. Offerings to Aquila during the Month of Everyday. And on birthdays, their shape — the crescent, the open eye — was meant to symbolize twilight’s eternal gaze. A blessing, a wish, and a celebration all in one.
“You did this for me?” she asked again, breathless.
Mydei nodded. “Baked, I found them by chance in a temple bakery. The deliverer might have nearly lost a finger fighting someone’s mother for one of the last trays.”
Aurora burst into giggles, hands clasped to her chest. “Oh no. You two set aside your rivalry in the name of me, only to fight a poor mother?”
“I wouldn’t say I set aside a rivalry, not like that.”
She looked around the glowing grove, then raised a brow. “And this? All this wasn’t just you.”
He scratched the back of his neck, half-grin returning. “I had help with that, too.”
She didn’t press. She didn’t need to.
There were only a few people who could weave magic like this: who could coax flowers into blooming early, bend lights to dance like falling stars, and turn a forgotten grove into a fairytale. She’d have to thank him later.
But for now…
“Come on,” Mydei said, tugging her gently forward. “I want to show you something.”
She followed as he led her through the garden, past softly glowing reeds and across curved stones set like stepping pads over flowing water. They skipped over fountains, walked balancing-beam style along narrow bridges, and twirled like dancers over fields of softly glowing moss.
They were ridiculous. And radiant.
And for the first time in a long while, Aurora didn’t feel alone. It wasn’t lonely. She was overjoyed, in a garden occupied by the one dearest to her, celebrating in a way never in a millennia had she ever planned.