Chapter 42
Upon entering, Arzhel was immediately struck by the room's serene elegance. Vidalia's chamber looked as if it had been lifted straight from a royal painting.
Ivory-trimmed walls accented with pale gold, a high ceiling adorned with delicate frescoes, and tall windows draped in soft blue curtains let in a gentle light that bathed the room in an almost celestial glow. At its center stood a sumptuous canopy bed, topped with silk drapery and exquisitely carved ornaments. Every piece of furniture seemed carefully chosen: a white marble dressing table, a sofa embroidered with silver threads, a low bookshelf lined with neatly arranged volumes.
The room was spacious, yet it did not feel cold. A faint scent of fresh flowers floated through the air, no doubt from the porcelain vases near the window. It was a place of calm, of beauty—a sanctuary for a girl whose presence was quiet yet radiant.
Arzhel gently closed the door behind him and crossed the polished floor. Vidalia was seated at her desk, focused on writing a letter, a book lying open beside her.
He smiled, adopting a theatrically wounded tone:
"So… am I really so uninteresting that you can't even glance up?"
Vidalia jumped, then spun around abruptly. Her face lit up the moment she saw him.
"Arzhel!" she exclaimed, laughing.
He approached with his usual smirk, offering a bouquet of deep, sapphire-blue roses.
"The one and only," he said, bowing slightly. "Congratulations on your mines, your new fortune, and—"
"Thank you!" she interrupted, her cheeks flushed, taking the bouquet to her chest with visible tenderness.
Vidalia inhaled the delicate fragrance of the roses.
"They're beautiful… Almost like enchanted flowers."
Arzhel feigned offense.
"Almost? Did you see who picked them? Me. With my own hands. At the risk of my life."
Vidalia rolled her eyes, amused.
"Did you fight a dragon?"
"Worse. An old florist who doesn't like anyone touching her blue roses."
She laughed softly, that discreet, crystalline laugh that never failed to make the mage smile.
"And you survived… What a hero."
He settled into the chair near her desk, crossing his legs with casual ease.
"You should write that in your book. Arzhel, the brave mage, vanquishing a cantankerous vendor with charm and smiles."
"I could call it The Epic of the Macaron and the Roses."
Arzhel raised an eyebrow.
"Why the macaron?"
She shrugged innocently, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Because it's what you put on the table every time you want to dodge an awkward question."
He opened his mouth, then closed it, mock-offended.
"I am insulted."
"You've been found out."
They laughed together.
A comfortable silence followed. Arzhel glanced at the papers on her desk.
"Who are you writing to?"
"Orion. He wanted news. He sent me hand-knitted wool socks."
Arzhel blinked, taken aback.
"Is that a declaration of love?"
"No, it's a coded message: 'You're sick, cover your feet.'"
"Adorable. My brother once sent me one sock. Just one. And it was burnt. His message was: Go burn in hell."
Vidalia looked at him, half-amused, half-perplexed.
"You have a strange family."
"So do you."
She smiled, lowering her eyes to her bouquet.
"Then we did well to find each other."
He looked at her, silent this time. Then, in a teasing tone:
"Are you sure it's not for my macarons?"
She burst out laughing.
Vidalia shook her head gently, a subtle smile on her lips, then rose to place the flowers in an empty vase on her bedside table. She arranged the stems delicately, her gaze tender, as if handling something fragile.
Arzhel watched in silence, a smile on his lips. He followed her with his eyes for a moment, then let his gaze wander around the room. His attention was drawn to the desk—simple yet carefully organized. Books were stacked in a corner, surrounded by silver-tipped quills and ink bottles decorated with floral motifs.
Curious, he brushed the cover of a soft-bound notebook and opened it.
To his surprise, it contained not words, but sketches—elegant dresses, delicate jewelry, refined accessories. He turned a few pages, fascinated. The designs varied: feminine, masculine, childlike. Some extravagant, others subtle, all drawn with meticulous care and taste.
"Oh…" came Vidalia's soft voice behind him.
He turned to see her frozen, cheeks flushed, green eyes wide with embarrassment. An amused smile tugged at his lips.
"You kept this talent from me, Lia," he said in a mock pout, gently closing the notebook. "But… I can forgive you. Your drawings are beautiful. And honestly, very marketable."
She lowered her eyes, her cheeks burning even more, but a smile escaped nonetheless.
"Thank you… I didn't mean to hide anything from you. I started two years ago, during my breaks."
She tucked a blue strand of hair behind her ear, a familiar gesture Arzhel knew well.
He perched half on the edge of her desk, flipping through the notebook again.
"Do you plan to have them made into actual garments someday? Sell them? Because I can promise you, they'd sell like hotcakes."
He saw her squint thoughtfully, her long white lashes brushing her cheeks. Arzhel couldn't help smiling. He adored her expressions, and he didn't hide it. He looked at her like a living painting.
"Maybe…" she finally murmured. "Now that I have no money or name problems, why not?"
She lifted her eyes to him, a wide smile lighting up her face. Her eyes sparkled with a sincere, almost childlike glow.
Arzhel felt a pang in his chest. A sudden urge to kiss her—right then, right there—flashed through him. He shook his head discreetly, dismissing the thought. It wasn't the moment.
Instead, he smiled back, a little more mischievous this time.
"I can picture a shop with your name in golden letters… or even: The Fairy of Drops, right? That would make the ladies dream."
Vidalia burst out laughing.
"You're ridiculous!" she said, tossing him a cushion.
He caught it effortlessly in midair.
"Not at all, I'm visionary," he replied with a theatrical bow.
≈≈≈≈≈
A delicate, calming silence settled between them, during which they exchanged shy smiles. Suddenly, both of them widened their eyes and spoke in unison:
"I have something to tell/ask you!"
They stared at each other, then burst into clear, spontaneous laughter, dispelling the tension. Once calm, Arzhel wiped a tear at the corner of his eye before speaking, his voice still tinged with amusement:
"So, what was it you wanted to tell me?" he asked gently.
Vidalia responded with a bright smile, shaking her head mysteriously.
"Ask me first, I'd rather show you," she said, rising gracefully.
Arzhel shrugged, intrigued, and stepped forward to take her hand, surprising her with the unexpected gesture. His warm fingers enclosed hers with unusual tenderness.
"Come with me to the Festival of Magic and the Kingdom, in two days," he proposed, brushing the back of her hand with his thumb, his gaze locked on hers.
Vidalia felt her heart skip a beat, a shiver of warmth running down her neck. She moistened her lips, trying to push away the racing thoughts colliding in her mind.
"Yes? With the others?…" she began uncertainly.
"No. Just the two of us. Together," Arzhel interrupted with a radiant smile, dangerously close now. He pointed first to her, then to himself: "I'm inviting you… and me, for a date on the first day of the festival."
Vidalia blushed instantly, like glowing embers. Arzhel, her best friend, the daring and fierce young man she secretly loved, was inviting her… on a date! Her mind ignited, torn between euphoria and panic. Was it just a friendly one-on-one? After all, they were close… but ever since she reunited with her family, they hadn't had private moments, always surrounded by Camélia or cousins.
Yet what she saw in Arzhel's glowing eyes was anything but friendly: it was a deeper, more intense spark. Vidalia felt her heart soften, as if melting under that gaze.
Still, no words passed her lips. Thoughts collided in a delicious chaos: she had never dared to dream that such a moment could occur.
Arzhel, meanwhile, felt his hope crack as the silence dragged on. Had he been too hasty? Perhaps Vidalia saw him only as a friend… Pain seized his stomach; he released her hand and stepped back slightly, as if fleeing an invisible blow.
"You… you don't want to?" he stammered, voice rough, eyes shadowed.
It was the first time he had felt so vulnerable, so cruelly rejected. A wild desire surged through him: to vanish underground, bury himself until shame suffocated him. Yet, if he could only keep her as a friend, he would accept it—as long as she remained by his side. He silently swore to find a way to break that cursed contract.
Vidalia, suddenly coming back to herself, panicked as she saw him step away. Seeing him like that, his gaze so filled with pain, tightened her chest. She cursed herself for remaining frozen.
"No! I mean… yes, it would be my greatest pleasure!" she exclaimed, almost desperate, grabbing his hand before it could slip away completely.
She caught her breath, her heart pounding wildly, and met Arzhel's gaze. He stared at her for a moment, incredulous, before a smile of rare softness lit his features. Vidalia was dazzled: she had never seen that smile on him. It was breathtaking.
She returned his smile, though her trembling hands betrayed her. Unable to endure the fiery intensity of his crimson eyes any longer, she gently looked away. Rarely had she seen Arzhel so overtaken by emotion. She knew of his silent obsession, his constant attention directed toward her, his insatiable mischief, and his innate tendency toward destruction, always ready to reduce anything blocking his way to ashes.
Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, and she pressed her clenched fist against it, as if to calm the chaotic beating. In Arzhel's eyes blazed a light she had never imagined: a ferocious sense of possession, a dark and tormenting desire, as if it wished to consume her entirely. Vidalia felt a burning heat rise from her lower abdomen and spread to her heart, a fervor she refused to name.
But immediately, her thoughts collided with harsh reality. She banished this intoxication, these reckless dreams of tenderness and freedom. She could not hope to be his, to be held in his arms, to be loved for herself. The mark etched into her nape was a cruel reminder. She was doomed to remain alone, a prisoner and a servant, chained to a fate that no smile nor spark of love could ever undo.