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The gardener appeared without warning. An old man, built like bark — dark and rough on the surface, the core beneath holding firm. Not stooped. Not frail. Deep creases framed his eyes, and his hands were callused, stained with soil that had long since become part of his skin. He did not greet her. He simply stopped beside her and watched, for a while, as she worked.
He said nothing. Long enough to make anyone else uncomfortable.
She did not lift her head.
/"Whoever breaks the silence first is the weaker one. Or wants to seem weaker."/
He wanted neither. He simply watched, like a man with time to spare.
"Not like that," he said finally. He stepped closer and took a stem from her basket. "You cut lower here. From the node, not the leaf."
He showed her — a precise, practiced motion. The stem snapped in the right place.
Elara repeated it. This time, more precisely.
He nodded. Not praise. Just the result, accepted.
"You haven't worked with roots," he said. Not a question.
"I was taught... other things."
He looked at her more closely, but did not press. He picked up his shears and moved to the next row. He simply closed the subject.
/"He does not pry. But he remembers."/
They worked in silence. He, there. She, here. Between them lay the garden, the dew slowly drying under the morning sun, and a quiet wind that stirred the tops of the shrubs now and then.
She found the silence oddly comfortable. And that, in itself, unsettled her.
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"You've done this before," Mira said. She had been sitting a little way off, silent for so long that Elara had almost forgotten she was there. "You don't just gather the herbs. You check them first."
Elara did not lift her head.
"Sometimes."
Mira shifted closer.
"There's something more interesting than herbs out here. See that edge?"
She nodded toward the fence. Beyond it, far off, the forest darkened the horizon. Dense. Impenetrable. Even in daylight, shadow pooled between the trees without clearing.
"Rare plants grow there. But no one goes in," Mira added, quieter. "Not without permission, anyway."
"Because of the monsters?"
Mira nodded.
"They're not just dangerous. They're changing. They never used to come this close to the estate."
"And now?"
Mira went quiet for a moment and looked toward the forest — wary. She knew what danger was, but she had not accepted the fact that it was growing.
"Now — closer."
The wind ran through the garden's branches. The forest did not move, but something was watching. Not at them, specifically. Just — toward the estate.
/"The danger is not only in the duchy."/
But the thought felt distant. Almost foreign to her.
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From the second-floor window, the Duke had a clear view of them both.
The Duke stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back. Beside him, Alan shifted his weight — he had never quite learned to stand as still, and every so often rocked from one foot to the other.
"She is not pretending," the Duke said quietly.
"Or she plays the part very well," Alan replied.
The Duke did not speak right away.
"If she were acting, she would slip on the small things. This is not learned. This is beaten into habit."
Alan's jaw tightened.
"That could mean anything."
"Yes," the Duke agreed. "Which is exactly why we wait."
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Elara felt a sudden change in the air. That pressure between her shoulder blades again — the one that always came when someone was watching. A close, heavy gaze.
/"They are testing me."/
She did not raise her head.
She kept working, giving no sign of tension. No performance to it: her body simply knew how to behave. Ten years — and it had learned.
Beside her, the gardener kept pruning. He did not look at the windows. But the pace of his work shifted too, barely. A small thing. Almost invisible.
/"He knows too. They are watching us."/
And does not show it. Which means — he is used to it.
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The sun had already dipped toward the horizon when Mira finally set down the bundle of lavender and crouched beside her.
"Ara... Are you really a herbalist?"
Her voice sounded light. But behind that casual tone, her eyes stayed sharp, without a trace of softness.
Elara did not lift her head from the shrub.
"I already told you."
"You did." Mira paused. "Some plants, you don't even check — you know them on sight. Even the rare ones. Even the ones that grow only in the southern provinces of the empire."
Elara's fingers froze on a stem for a fraction of a second.
/"She is watching every move."/
"Habit," she answered shortly.
Mira pressed on.
"And you didn't twist your ankle either. You weren't limping — I saw you walk in. Steady stride. No tension at all."
The wind stirred the leaves again. Somewhere beyond the fence, deep in the forest, a quiet sound cracked the air. Too heavy for a dry branch. Too measured for an ordinary animal. Just a dull, muffled snap.
Neither of them turned her head immediately. But both had noticed.
Elara finally raised her eyes to the girl.
"You notice a lot."
Mira smiled, and the smile carried more exhaustion than youthful joy.
"I told you: everyone here notices. They just don't all say it out loud."
The silence between them stretched thin and dangerous.
"Why are you here?" Mira asked quietly.
/"Say something simple. Enough truth not to sound like a lie."/
"Because I was offered work," Elara answered. "And I have nowhere else to go."
The second part was true. The first, too. If you did not count everything standing behind it.
Mira studied her face another second. Then nodded.
"Fine." As if she accepted the answer. Not entirely, though. "Then get back to work."
She stood and moved on to the next row of shrubs. No offense taken, no irritation.
Elara watched her go. A girl of sixteen with the eyes of an older woman who had seen too much.
/"I wonder what, exactly, she was ordered to see."/
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