Black Garden

There were a lot of things I didn't expect to do when I became the consort of a terrifying dragon queen.

Helping her tend to a cursed, semi-sentient magical garden? Definitely not on the list.

But there I was.

Kneeling shirtless in the dirt—at her request, naturally—surrounded by rows of thorny black vines, obsidian-petaled blossoms, and weirdly humming mushrooms that glowed whenever I touched them.

Vilo stood nearby, dressed in her garden robes—dark silk draped over one shoulder, tied at the waist, bare feet pressed into the damp earth like it belonged to her. Her silver hair was bound in a high braid, swaying with every graceful step she took. Her wings were tucked back, but her claws were sharp and ungloved.

She was in her element.

And I was trying very, very hard not to stare at her the entire time.

The Black Garden was famous. Or infamous. Depending on who you asked.

It didn't bloom in daylight. The petals opened only beneath moonlight or starlight, drinking in magical residue instead of sunlight. Every plant here was technically "undead"—grown from ashes, enchanted soil, and the lingering spirits of things long dead.

It shouldn't have been beautiful.

But it was.

Vilo crouched beside a bed of something called Velthorn, trimming its needle-like buds with a glowing blade of silver. "Snip only the outer stems," she instructed. "If you cut the center ones, the entire cluster wilts."

"Got it," I said, wiping sweat from my brow. "What happens if you—"

The stem I touched pulsed under my fingers.

With a pop, a shower of glittering black spores burst into the air, surrounding me like a cloud.

I coughed, waving it away. "Sorry!"

She gave me a tired look. "Stop touching things before I finish explaining them."

"Right, right. Sorry again."

I moved to the next plant. Ashblossom. Looked like a flower made of spiderwebs and teeth. I bent down to snip off the dead ends—when something brushed my ankle.

A vine.

Then another.

I turned.

"Uh… Vilo?"

She looked up—and her eyes widened.

The vines were moving.

Not slowly. Not lazily.

Fast.

Before I could stand, they whipped around my calves, yanking me to the ground. Another snared my wrist. A thick, thorned coil slithered toward my waist like it had plans.

"Wha—HEY!"

Vilo didn't hesitate.

A snap of her fingers summoned a blade of crimson flame, and she launched across the garden like a fury given form.

"Off!" she snarled.

One slash. Two. Three.

Vines writhed and screamed as she carved them apart, scorching the soil beneath with every strike. The garden hissed like it was angry—alive—but she didn't stop until I was completely free.

She dropped beside me and dragged me back by the wrist, one hand cradling my back as she pulled me against the soft, scorched dirt.

"You idiot," she snapped. "Why didn't you move?"

"I tried!"

"You didn't try hard enough!"

"They came out of nowhere—!"

"Everything in this garden has rules!" she barked. "You don't touch them without asking. You don't kneel that close. You don't breathe near that one!"

Her hands were trembling.

I blinked.

"You're… you're scared."

"I'm furious."

"You're furious because you're scared."

She didn't deny it.

Instead, she shoved me back—not hard, but firmly—until I was lying flat in the dirt, pinned beneath her body, her knee pressed between my thighs, her claws digging into the earth on either side of my head.

Her silver hair fell like a curtain between us.

"You could've died," she growled.

"I've had worse—"

"You don't understand," she hissed, voice shaking now. "These plants don't just feed on magic. They feed on emotion. Yours. Mine. They sensed your nervousness. Your excitement. Your affection."

I stared at her. "They did?"

"They wanted you," she said. "And they take what they want."

The air between us was heavy. Too warm. Too close.

"Why were you shirtless?" she asked suddenly, glaring. "Did you want them to react?"

"You told me to take it off!"

"I didn't think you'd look like that."

I blinked. "Look like what?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, she exhaled shakily and leaned closer, her forehead resting against mine.

"Stop making me afraid," she whispered.

My heart clenched.

"Okay," I said softly. "I will."

She stayed like that for a long moment.

Then she stood, dusted herself off, and turned away.

"Bath," she muttered. "Now."

"I didn't bring a towel—"

"I don't care. Just wash the garden off you."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

That earned me a glare over the shoulder.

"…Sorry. Yes, dear."

Better.

That night, we sat on the balcony overlooking the Black Garden. It shimmered beneath the moonlight, a field of dark glass and violet fire, pulsing gently with the heartbeat of buried magic.

She poured two glasses of starfruit wine.

Then spoke.

"This place used to be a battlefield."

I looked up.

She didn't look at me—just stared into the garden, eyes distant.

"A thousand soldiers died here. Humans, demons, beasts. They left nothing behind. No monuments. No names."

She sipped her wine.

"I had it burned. Then salted. Then soaked in phoenix tears. Still, the spirits lingered."

"So you turned it into a garden?"

She nodded. "It needed to grow. So I gave it purpose. Roots. Shape. I fed it with mana. Emotion. Grief."

She looked at me.

"And now… it's beautiful."

I followed her gaze.

The petals. The shadows. The slow, strange harmony of life born from loss.

"It's like us," she said.

I blinked. "Us?"

"You and me. This relationship. This… thing we're building. It started from chaos. Confusion. Fear."

She reached over and traced the edge of my collar with one finger.

"But it's growing."

My voice caught in my throat.

I didn't know what to say.

So I leaned against her shoulder instead.

She allowed it.

Even tilted her head to rest lightly against mine.

And as the night wind danced over the cursed soil, she whispered, just loud enough for me to hear:

"I'm going to protect this."

I wasn't sure if she meant the garden.

Or me.

But I knew better than to ask.

Because either way…

I believed her.