Chapter 74 – A Tale of a Cursed Flower III

By the time Princess Thyra was fifteen, she had undergone countless sessions of training to control her powers. The witches guided her as best as they could, but even their expertise could only do so much. Princess Thyra understood the danger she posed—not just to herself, but to her family and kingdom. Still, she had no clear understanding of the true depth of her power. The palace and its gardens remained eerily silent when she was near, as if nature itself held its breath in her presence, but rumours spread like wildfire among the courtiers and commoners alike, whispers of her power turning people to stone.

The fragrance her power released was otherworldly—part rose, part something impossible to name—and it had become a weapon all its own. Even the slightest surge of magic could twist the scent into something overwhelming, capable of paralysing anyone nearby. While she could restrain it to some degree, there were limits to her control. Each attempt to push those limits left her heart pounding, knowing that a single misstep could turn the palace, or even her own family, into victims of her uncontrollable power. Yet, her love for her family never wavered, especially for her eldest brother, Prince Zhao.

One day, King Azure decided to make Prince Zhao the crown prince to the throne.

On that day of Prince Zhao’s coronation as crown prince, the palace was alive with the grandest celebration the kingdom had ever seen. Preparations were elaborate, as the grand hall brimmed with nobles and dignitaries, their cheers echoing beneath vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate tapestries. King Azure had asked Princess Thyra to showcase her power as a gesture of loyalty and unity toward her eldest brother, the future king, so she wouldn’t feel left out.

At first, Princess Thyra hesitated. Her heart was heavy with fear, knowing how unpredictable her magic could be. But the love and respect she held for her father and brother compelled her to agree. The grand hall was resplendent with light and colour, and when it was Princess Thyra’s turn, the hall fell silent as she stepped into the centre, her emerald-green eyes shimmering with both determination and fear. She extended her arms, and the air around her shifted, vibrant with energy. A spectacular display unfolded—flowers of every hue blossomed midair, their petals cascading in an intricate dance. Vines wove through the air like serpents, forming intricate patterns before vanishing into bursts of light. It was mesmerising, an unparalleled show of beauty and grace as the audience watched in awe, captivated by the sheer beauty of her performance.

But as Princess Thyra reached the peak of her demonstration, she began to lose control. The vines, once delicate and elegant, grew wild, their tendrils breaking through the marble floor and spreading like wildfire. A massive network of vines lifted the stage where Prince Zhao was standing, shaking the ground and nearly bringing down the grand hall.

Princess Thyra struggled, her heart pounding and breathing heavily as she tried to rein in the rampaging vines. Despite her efforts, they continued to surge and twist, threatening to engulf everyone in the room. Panic erupted—guests fled, their cries echoing through the hall. Desperate to regain control, Princess Thyra fought against her own power, but the vines refused to yield, lashing wildly as if they had a will of their own.

Prince Aerion drew his glaive, slashing through the vines to keep them at bay, while Prince Enthril braced himself against a massive tendril, holding it back from crushing the nobles. The witches raised a protective barrier, shimmering under the strain, and King Azure himself tore through the vines with his bare hands to stop the roaring vines.

Amid the chaos, Prince Zhao jumped down from the stage, calm where others trembled. He emerged near his sister through the writhing vines and called out, “Thyra!” his voice was steady yet filled with warmth. “Focus on my voice.”

The words calmed her down, and her breath became stable.  Amid the destruction and panic, her brother’s voice reached her—unwavering, gentle, and meant only for her. Despite the chaos around her, what struck Thyra most was not the terror she caused but the concern about her visibly shining in her brother’s eyes.

The words cut through her panic, grounding her in a way she never expected. Slowly, the wild vines obeyed her will, retreating into the earth as if responding to her silent plea. Though no lives were lost, the hall bore the marks of her power—cracked floors, torn tapestries, and shattered ornaments scattered across the ground. As the last of the vines withdrew, Thyra’s strength gave way. Her legs buckled beneath her, but before she could fall, Prince Zhao caught her in his arms. She looked up at him, her breathing faint, and whispered, “I’m sorry, brother…” before slipping into unconsciousness.

Afterwards, Prince Zhao carried her to her chambers. Some time later, Princess Thyra awoke to find herself lying in her bed. From beyond the door, faint voices drifted through—servants whispering to one another.

“The princess ruined the royal coronation,” one said. “She nearly killed everyone in the hall.”

“I saw the damage myself,” another replied. “The place is in ruins.”

Their words pierced through the silence like knives. As she listened, Princess Thyra’s chest tightened, her breath unsteady. The realisation struck her like a wave—she wasn’t a miracle, nor a blessing. She was a danger, not just to the kingdom, but to her own family—the people she loved most.

That night, as the moon bathed the castle in silver light, Princess Thyra made her decision and left the palace. She packed a small bag, leaving behind her royal garments and jewels. As the moon hung high in the night sky, she slipped out of the palace, her heart heavy but resolute. She would protect her kingdom the only way she knew how—by leaving it.

Princess Thyra travelled north, her journey taking her to the frigid peaks of Mount Elysian, a place of eternal winter where no one tread to lived. The biting cold was merciless, and her strength waned as she climbed higher, her breath fogging in the icy air. At last, her legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the frozen ground, her trembling hands attempting to summon vines for warmth. The plants emerged but froze instantly, shattering into brittle fragments.

As the cold threatened to consume her, Princess Thyra’s magic surged, acting on instinct. Vines burst forth from the ground, intertwining to form a sanctuary of life amidst the snow. Flowers bloomed despite the frost, their petals glowing faintly, and the air grew warmer within the sanctuary of her creation. This sanctuary became her refuge, a testament to her strength—a haven atop the mountain, shielded from the world around.

Back in the kingdom, her disappearance sent shockwaves through the palace. King Azure and her brothers were devastated, while some nobles whispered that the kingdom was better off without her. But King Azure refused to accept such thoughts. He poured all his resources into searching for her, dispatching soldiers to every corner of the realm.

Even the witches who had trained Princess Thyra tried their best, casting spells to locate her. But no matter what they did, Princess Thyra’s location remained hidden. King Azure, wracked with guilt for failing to keep his promise to his late wife, continued the search relentlessly.

Then, thirty days after her departure, a quiet miracle occurred. In Princess Thyra’s chambers, a single blue rose bloomed, releasing a soft fragrance that filled the room—a message from the princess herself. Its scent was calm and soothing, carrying with it a sense of peace. The servants, awestruck, hurried to inform the king and the princes, who soon gathered around the flower in silence.

Seeing the flower, “She’s safe,” King Azure whispered, tears glistening in his eyes as he touched the delicate petals. “Cancel the search,” King Azure ordered.

Then, before their eyes, the entire chamber transformed into a sacred garden—vines crept along the walls, crystal-clear ponds emerged where the floor once was, and petals shimmered in hues of blue and silver. At its heart, the single blue rose stood as proof, a symbol of hope that Princess Thyra was alive and well, and that one day she would return.

Six years have passed since that flower bloomed, but she never did return because her love for her family was far greater, which led her to sacrifice herself, choosing to remain within her sanctuary, shaping her own destiny.

The trio was utterly captivated by the story they had just heard, so much so that they failed to notice their surroundings shifting around them. They moved as if in a trance, their minds lost within the echoes of Princess Thyra’s tale. It wasn’t until the final words faded into silence that they realised they had stopped walking.

Standing before them was the foot of a fifty-step stone slope, carved from smooth, pale granite that seemed to shimmer faintly under the light filtering through the thick canopy above. At the top of the slope, the source of the voice finally reveals itself. “Now, tell me—what message does my brother, Prince Zhao, send me?”