CHAPTER 58: THE SWAN DIVINA AND THE HOSTAGE PRINCE

Leroy stood before a patch of soft earth where new shoots had begun to sprout. The early morning sky stretched out in pale gray, the sun still hiding behind the hills.

He knelt there, silent. After destroying the hydrangeas his wife had so carefully nurtured, no apology felt worthy. Words would be useless. So he planted new flowers in their place—not to replace what was lost, but to show her that he’d tried. That he cared.

His eyes lingered on the tiny green leaves, trembling in the breeze. There was something humbling, almost sacred, about coaxing life out of the soil. That quiet joy of nurturing something was a novel feeling. It made his guilt cut deeper. He had stolen that joy from her.

Behind him, footsteps approached.

Cedric stopped at the edge of the garden, watching Leroy crouched among the young plants, hands dirt-streaked and slow. "I have news," he said, his voice light with anticipation. He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He never could when excitement got the better of him.

"Your Highness, I found her. The Swan Divina."

Leroy’s hand paused mid-motion. He glanced back, eyes narrowing.

"She’s real," Cedric pressed. "No one’s seen her face, but her words carry weight. She appears in that old stone tower in the middle of the red-light district. It took me days to even get these details."

He exhaled, heart pounding with the thrill of revelation. But Leroy had already returned to the plants, brushing away a curl of soil from a tender shoot.

Undeterred, Cedric pressed on. "You remember Fort Elric, don’t you? That winter near the Kaltharion border, when our supplies were cut off? The emperor’s quiet little revenge for your growing influence."

Leroy didn’t respond, but the silence had changed. Cedric could feel it. So he continued.

"We were days from starvation. And then, out of nowhere, crates of rye, smoked venison, and hard bread were delivered from the north. No seal, no messenger. We thought it was some forgotten supply chain."

He stepped closer, voice lowering with reverence. "It wasn’t. It was her. The day before those crates arrived, she left a message in the capital. Just five words: ’The moon weeps where wheat withers.’ Lord Halebrand owns those northern fields. Superstitious bastard. He must’ve seen the omen and panicked. But it saved us. She had cleverly used his superstition for our benefit."

Loery’s hand paused, but still there was no reply. Cedric’s voice hardened with conviction.

"And Black Hollow. You haven’t forgotten that, have you? Lord Theron, under Duke Arvand’s thumb, was meant to abandon us mid-siege. We were done for. But something changed his mind, and he reinforced the pass. He never said why."

Cedric’s eyes narrowed. "Rumors say his wife had a dream. Others whisper the Divina warned him of ’steel that faces the sun.’ Had he retreated, he’d have faced East. It was a warning against him facing East—to leave us. It worked. If she hadn’t spoken... you and I would be ashes in an unmarked grave."

Leroy cleared his throat and stood up.

Cedric gave a short laugh, more breath than sound. "That’s not all. On our way back, at Velwyn’s Glade..."

That was the closest call of all.

"House Velwyn offered us safe passage, claiming neutrality. But they had already struck a deal to hand you over to the emperor." Cedric’s jaw clenched. "And you hesitated. Told us to pull back."

His voice softened. "You said a disheveled lady met you on the road. Told you ’To retreat when the dove sings twice.’ Hours later, we heard a flute—twice—coming from the trees."

Leroy didn’t speak, but Cedric could see the memory in his eyes.

"That woman... she was Lord Velwyn’s daughter. She had met the Divina. It was a warning. If we’d taken that path, we’d have been ghosts by nightfall. That was her, Your Highness. Again."

Cedric shook his head, voice thick with awe.

"Sir Al was right. She’s not just some incense-draped oracle, muttering riddles. She knows. She’s seen things no one should. And for whatever reason... she’s saved us. Again and again."

A beat of silence followed. Then, in a quieter voice, Cedric said, "I don’t know why. But I’d wager my sword there are still soldiers waiting in that glade... thinking we’ll come riding through. And she’s the only reason we didn’t."

But Leroy didn’t respond. He simply turned, and walked away, toward the house. He didn’t even bother to wipe the dirt from his hands, as though suddenly possessed by a mission only he could understand.

Cedric hurried to catch up.

"That’s not all," he said, matching Leroy’s long strides. "Zara... she’s still not well."

Leroy didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch.

Cedric felt the bitterness rise in his throat. So that’s it?

He understood the prince was back with his wife. But still, Zara had once meant something to him. She was fighting illness and heartbreak all at once, and the man she had given her heart to had turned cold. Detached.

Didn’t he realize what his silence was doing to her?

Cedric’s hands clenched. "She keeps asking after you," he said quietly. "She still thinks you’ll stay with her. She’s waiting, and it’s... It’s eating her alive."

He hated how Leroy didn’t even glance his way. Hated the quiet authority of his steps. Where was he even going? What could be more important? Did he even hear him?

A thousand things burned on the edge of Cedric’s tongue.

There’s a woman who’s wasting away, thinking only of you, and you don’t even care?

If Zara would let him, Cedric would have stayed by her side every damn day. He would have fought the illness for her. And yet she held on to a man who couldn’t even be bothered to look back.

Why him, Zara? he thought bitterly. Why still him?

-----

In the stone tower at the heart of the red-light district, where no map dared mark and only whispers gave direction, the chamber shimmered with a strange, pearlescent glow. The light did not flicker like flame, nor hum like magic. It simply was, as though the moon had poured its marrow into the marble.

The Dowager sat cross-legged upon a silken cushion atop the smooth, mirror-like floor. Her silver hair was tied back with austere grace, her posture composed, chin slightly lifted, not with arrogance, but with the kind of practiced dignity only time could forge.

Unlike the desperate nobles and fretting generals who came before her, the Dowager did not look at the water basin where the Swan Divina’s visions usually stirred. She’d seen enough smoke and mirrors in her lifetime to know how easy it was to lose truth in spectacle. But she did take the tea, as was required. A polished silver cup, warm in her wrinkled hands, its contents faintly floral and impossibly still.

From behind the translucent veil, the Divina’s voice came—soft, slow, and rippling like water down a forgotten spring.

"Here to gain insight?" she asked.

Behind the veil, her icy-blue eyes shimmered, glinting with quiet mirth. The kind of mirth one wears when the game is already won.