The Garden That Devours
The garden behind Veremelle Hall was enchanted—or cursed, depending on who you asked.
They said it bloomed only for those who were loved.
And devoured those who loved too much.
Tonight, under pale starlight, Elira walked beside Celestienne, barely brushing the edge of the path as vines shimmered with quiet malice.
"Are you cold?" Celestienne asked, not looking at her.
Elira shook her head. "No."
Liar.
The chill was seeping into her bones—but not from the wind.
From the tension.
From the way Celestienne's hand occasionally brushed hers. Not quite accidental.
From the way the garden pulsed.
As if alive.
"You didn't answer my question," Celestienne said at last.
Elira hesitated. "Which one?"
"The only one that mattered."
A step closer. The flowers leaned toward her like hounds to their mistress.
"Why didn't you look only at me?"
"I don't belong to you," Elira said quietly.
The garden stilled.
Celestienne's eyes lit with amusement—and something sharper.
"Not yet."
They stopped near the center of the garden. The stone arch was overgrown, and the moon hung like a cold crown above them.
Celestienne turned fully to her.
"Elira," she murmured. "Do you know what this garden does?"
"Rumors. Whispers," Elira replied.
"Not just whispers." Her voice dropped. "It responds to desire."
As if on cue, a flower bloomed between them—violet-black with glowing veins.
"And right now…" Celestienne stepped closer. "…it hears mine."
Elira's breath faltered.
A petal floated to her cheek. It was warm.
"You're scaring me," Elira said honestly.
Celestienne's smile softened, but didn't fade.
"I won't hurt you," she promised. "Unless you try to leave me."
Suddenly—movement.
A branch snapped behind them.
Celestienne tensed, and from the shadows stepped Isolde Virellith, her hair like silver silk, eyes narrowed.
"Elira," she said flatly.
Celestienne's body shifted just slightly. Not blocking—but claiming.
"You followed us," she said.
"I always do," Isolde replied. "You're not the only one who hears the garden."
A silent pause.
Tension vibrated between the three of them.
The garden, as if responding, bloomed in clusters of red and white.
Elira looked from one girl to the other, heart thudding.
They weren't talking about flowers anymore.
"Walk with me, Elira," Isolde said.
Celestienne's eyes sharpened. "She's already walking with me."
Isolde stepped forward. "I wasn't asking you."
The vines stirred.
Elira swallowed.
"Enough," she said, stepping back.
Both girls turned to her in unison.
"I'm tired. I'm going back."
Neither followed her as she left.
But she could feel their eyes.
Burning. Wanting. Calculating.
And behind her, the garden whispered—
She is ours.
Elira locked the door to her room that night.
Twice.
Then placed a chair under the handle.
Not because she was afraid they would hurt her.
But because she wasn't sure what she would do if they asked her to open it.
She pressed her back against the wall and slid down to the floor.
It was too much.
Too fast.
Too…
Intoxicating.
Her heart betrayed her.
She dreamed of violet eyes and silver hair.
And a voice in the dark that whispered:
"Don't look at him again."
The next morning, she woke up to find her door unlocked.
The chair had not moved.
And on her pillow:
A single black lily, half-wilted.
Still warm.