The Spring Crown Celebration marked the height of Floravere's season—an event held beneath high silk banners and golden canopies, where nobles gathered to celebrate the renewal of the realm, the strength of its leaders, and the spirit of its people.
This year, the Queen had chosen Lady Elira—daughter of a minor noble house, and now a beloved presence in court—to offer the closing words.
Her name had not always belonged in such circles. But now, her story had become something more.
As the sun dipped low over the terrace garden, the crowd stood gathered in a wide semi-circle. Cherry blossoms fluttered like confetti, caught in the soft wind. Lanterns floated above, ready to glow as dusk crept in.
Elira stepped forward.
Her gown was simple. Pale gold. No jewels. Just embroidered ivy leaves along the hem and sleeves—growth, rebirth, resilience. Her hair was half-pinned, the rest loose and caught by the breeze.
Marienne stood among the nobles, arms gently crossed, pride lighting her expression like a second sun.
Jarell, nearby, didn't need to say anything. His presence, as always, was enough.
And from the shadows at the garden's edge, behind a marble column twined with roses, Lucien stood in stillness.
Elira took a breath.
"I was once a girl who mistook silence for safety," she began, her voice clear but soft, "and fear for love."
A murmur swept through the court. Not scandal—recognition.
"I shaped myself to fit someone else's shadow, believing that shrinking meant stability. That gentleness meant weakness. That kindness meant being quiet."
She looked out over the crowd—not shy, not guarded.
"But healing… healing taught me that love should never make you feel small. That love, when it is real, feels like sunlight. It warms, without burning. It holds, without chaining."
"We speak often in this court of grace and elegance, of duty and beauty. But grace is not silence. Beauty is not surrender. And duty should never ask us to become less than who we are."
She paused.
"I am not who I once was. And I am proud of that."
The audience was silent—but it was not an empty silence.
It was reverent. Full. Weighty with truth.
Elira bowed her head once. Not to be polite—but to honor the girl she once was, and the woman she had chosen to become.
As the applause began to swell like music, Marienne blinked hard, a rare sheen of tears caught in her lashes.
She did it, she thought. She finally stood alone, and the world listened.
Jarell clapped once, then again, his eyes never leaving Elira's face.
Lucien did not clap.
He did not cry.
But for the first time, his expression was not twisted in pain, or warped by longing.
He was… still.
Quietly, he turned and stepped away. He left through the side archway before the celebration began its music and wine. No fanfare. No parting glance.
And for once, it didn't feel like retreat.It felt like release.
Above them, the lanterns lit one by one.
And in the golden light of evening, Elira smiled.
Not for anyone else.
Just for herself.