Chapter 1: Slutch | The Beast in the Garden

The spring sun smiled upon the dewy meadows surrounding Castle Riverstone. Beyond the outer walls, feral cats stalked through wet grass while swallows darted between weather-worn gargoyles blackened by age and rain. Bloomtide banners snapped proudly in the morning wind high above the battlements, their bright floral silks rippling against pale stone as though the kingdom itself had decided winter was officially over. From a distance, Riverstone looked eternal. Up close, it looked tired.

The southern merchant road winding toward the city gates had once been broad enough for six wagons to ride abreast. Now it had narrowed into a crooked trail of patched mud and fractured stone where grass pushed stubbornly through the cracks. Fur traders, spice peddlers, and dragon oil charlatans guided creaking carts toward the gates while trying not to lose wheels in the ruts. The kingdom still painted its sights. It still polished its walls. It still held festivals grand enough to convince outsiders that nothing had changed. But roads do not lie. Neither do roofs. Nor the laborers unloading flower carts before dawn while the nobles still slept behind marble walls.

Riverstone smelled sweetest in spring. That was how the kingdom hid everything else. Bloomtide arrived like a perfumed lie draped lovingly across a shallow grave, flooding the city with roses, lavender, lilies, and imported oils while the gutters still carried piss, blood, fish rot, smoke, and the sour reek of too many bodies packed too tightly together behind crumbling walls. Flower carts rolled through the gates before dawn each morning while laborers hauled out the dead by twilight through side streets the nobles never walked. Bakers pulled honey cakes from ovens beside alleys where children fought stray dogs over vegetable peels. Chambermaids emptied piss pots from upper windows onto streets lined with silk banners celebrating prosperity. Even the castle joined the performance. Servants scrubbed marble until their fingers bled while ivy climbed cracks spreading through ancient stone beneath painted murals of past victories nobody living still remembered. Spring buried the smell beneath petals long enough for the kingdom to pretend the rot belonged somewhere else. Merchants shouted over one another. Laborers strained beneath crates of imported wine while guards barked orders nobody particularly respected. The city awakened hungry.

Below the castle proper, tucked against the inner wall beneath the wyvern roosts, Rowan Moor buried a shovel into a steaming pile of belly grime with all the enthusiasm of a man digging his own grave.

“Careful with that stitching, Slutch,” called Old Rennic from atop a ladder. “You gouge that leather again, and I’ll stitch your ears shut.”

Roawn glanced down at the black-green sludge coating his gloves. “Then who’ll listen to your stories?”

Rennic barked a laugh that immediately collapsed into a coughing fit. He leaned heavily against the suspended harness while trying to catch his breath again.

“Bloomtide brings nobles,” the old stablemaster wheezed. “Nobles notice shiny things. That means we polish everything. Even the shit.”

Above them, chained to its iron perch, a royal wyvern shifted irritably against its restraints. Massive claws scraped stone while leathery wings twitched with heavy snaps that echoed throughout the roost. Emerald scales shimmered brilliantly beneath fresh oil and morning sunlight. From a distance, the creature looked magnificent.

Up close, Rowan could see the rot creeping beneath the beauty. Gray patches spread beneath loose scales along the underbelly. One eye leaked cloudy yellow fluid down the beast’s jaw while a handler quickly wiped it away before anyone important noticed. Nobody talked about the sickness spreading through the royal wyverns. The handlers simply polished harder.

The entire stable yard vibrated faintly as another wyvern landed somewhere overhead. Dust drifted from the rafters while chains rattled against iron posts thick enough to restrain creatures capable of carrying armored knights through storm winds. Somewhere above the roost, a groom shouted in panic before a chorus of laughter assured everyone the screaming had not become fatal.

Yet. Then the bells began. Not labor bells. Castle bells. Every worker in the yard paused instinctively. High above the stable quarter, servants emerged onto balconies draped in white and gold silk while Bloomtide musicians assembled along the upper roads leading toward the castle terraces. Flower petals drifted lazily from the battlements as though the castle itself had begun shedding spring. Rowan leaned slightly against his shovel and looked upward.

The upper terrace overlooked nearly the entire city, catching the morning sun in pale washes of gold that made the marble seem almost holy. Nobles gathered there already in embroidered silks while servants rushed between them carrying floral arrangements expensive enough to feed whole districts through winter. From below, the upper levels of Riverstone always appeared untouched by mud, hunger, or labor. The castle floated above the city like it belonged to another world entirely.

Then he saw her.

The princess moved through the terrace crowds, surrounded by attendants dressed in flowing whites and soft spring greens. One of the younger servants struggled to secure a long banner against the wind and nearly lost the entire thing over the balcony before the princess caught the fabric herself, laughing hard enough that even two nearby guards seemed unsure whether they were allowed to smile back.

That was what Rowan noticed first. Not beauty or grace, but life. The nobles of Riverstone carried themselves like portraits, pretending to breathe. Every gesture rehearsed, every smile measured carefully enough to survive immortalization in paint. But the princess leaned too far over the railings when she spoke. She laughed openly instead of politely. When a flower girl stumbled while carrying a basket across the terrace, the princess crouched to help her gather spilled petals herself while horrified attendants rushed to stop her from touching the ground like a normal person.

One of the older women accompanying her said something sharp enough to erase the smile from everyone nearby except the princess herself. She responded with what looked suspiciously like a mocking bow before slipping briefly away from the cluster of attendants entirely.

Rowan found himself smiling despite himself. Sunlight caught in strands of auburn hair as wind tugged ribbons loose from her sleeves. Even from the stable yard below, Rowan could see the difference between her world and his in the way she moved. No stiffness from old injuries. No caution around sore muscles. No permanent grime buried into the lines of her hands. She drifted through Bloomtide silk and falling petals like the world softened itself before she touched it.

“Careful, Slutch,” muttered one of the stable hands nearby. “Keep staring like that, and somebody’s liable to think you’ve got ambition.”

Rowan ignored him. Above them, sunlight caught strands of auburn hair as the princess crossed the terrace alone for a few precious seconds free from handlers, silk ribbons trailing behind her in the morning wind. She paused near the balcony overlooking the lower city and glanced down over the streets below. Her gaze drifted lazily across rooftops, banners, and crowds. Then stopped. On him.Not long, just a heartbeat at most. But long enough. Long enough for Rowan to suddenly feel the soot on his face, the grease beneath his fingernails, the wyvern muck staining his sleeves, and the reeking shovel still hanging from his hands.

The princess offered the faintest polite smile in acknowledgment before attendants reclaimed her attention and swept her back into the blooming machinery of court life. Nothing. Less than nothing. But Rowan watched her disappear behind silk banners and marble columns, feeling as though something inside him had just been quietly and permanently damaged.

She disappeared behind drifting silk banners while servants and attendants closed around her once more like the jaws of some elegant animal swallowing its favorite meal. Rowan watched the terrace a moment longer before Old Rennic snapped his fingers loudly from atop the ladder.

“You planning on marrying her today, boy, or can I get my harness cleaned before winter?”

Rowan smirked faintly and returned to work. “I’m pacing myself. Don’t want to seem desperate.”

“You shovel wyvern ass for a living. Ship’s sailed.”

A few nearby stable hands laughed while Rowan drove his scraper beneath a hardened layer of black crust fused to the underside of a saddle frame. The buildup peeled away in wet chunks that slapped heavily into the trough beside him, releasing the thick smell of hot bile, old leather, and the faintly sickly-sweet metallic chemical tang unique to wyvern slutch. The odor clung to the back of the throat and settled into clothes, no matter how hard someone scrubbed afterward. It was a familiar edge Rowan had never quite gotten used to, like alchemist’s spirits spilled across a butcher’s floor.

Above him, the wyvern shifted again. The royal beasts had once been symbols of Florinth’s strength. At least that was what the paintings claimed. Towering creatures of emerald and gold soaring across blue skies while kings led glorious charges against invaders too terrified to stand and fight. Every mural in Riverstone showed them magnificent. Noble. Almost divine.

The real creatures smelled like rotting meat and old coins. This one lowered its head toward a passing stable boy carrying feed buckets and snapped hard enough to crack its chains taut. The boy yelped and stumbled backward into the mud while nearby handlers cursed at him for dropping half the meat.

“Keep moving!” shouted one of the overseers. “Unless you’d rather explain to the quartermaster why the royals are short on liver again.”

The boy scrambled after the scattered feed while blood trickled from a shallow cut across his cheek where the bucket handle had struck him. Nobody stopped working. That was the dangerous thing about Riverstone. Eventually, even madness became routine.

Rowan glanced upward toward the wyvern’s underbelly while he worked. Fresh oil shimmered beautifully across polished scales, but beneath the shine, the signs were impossible to ignore once someone knew where to look. Gray rot spread beneath loose plates along the stomach. Thin cracks webbed through older scales. The membranes beneath the wings began spotting dark near the joints.

Diseased.

Every single one of them.

Yet every Bloomtide the kingdom painted them brighter, polished them cleaner, and flew them lower over the crowds so people could still look upward and believe power lived here. Below the roosts, the city stretched outward beneath the castle in widening rings of decline carefully hidden beneath flowers and banners. Rowan could see workers hanging fresh Bloomtide silks over entire sections of cracked stone wall while carpenters nearby ignored a collapsed roof that had been spilling rainwater into tenements since winter. Flower carts rolled endlessly toward the upper districts while children in the lower streets fought over bruised fruit beside overflowing gutters.

A pair of guards shoved an old woman away from a perfume merchant’s stall near the lower market road. She stumbled hard enough to fall to one knee while clutching her shawl closed against herself. One of the crystal bottles had tipped during the commotion, spilling floral oil across the wood counter while the merchant hissed louder over the wasted perfume than the woman sprawled in the mud beside it.

“Move along,” one of the guards barked. “Festival routes are for paying customers.”

The merchant behind the stall said nothing. He simply looked away and scowled as he adjusted the fresh ribbons hanging from his awning while the old woman struggled upright again.

Further down the avenue, laborers hauled imported flowers toward palace terraces already drowning in color, while another crew nearby patched potholes with loose gravel that would wash away after the next heavy rain. Musicians practiced somewhere near the market square, their cheerful Bloomtide melodies drifting faintly across districts where half the chimneys still sat cold from winter shortages. Beauty required maintenance. Constant maintenance.

Every year, the kingdom spent fortunes repainting walls, importing flowers, commissioning musicians, polishing armor, gilding statues, and draping Riverstone in enough perfume and silk to convince visitors the kingdom still prospered. Meanwhile, entire neighborhoods sagged deeper into poverty beneath the decorations. The farther one traveled from the castle, the thinner the illusion became. Roads crumbled. Storefronts emptied. Families packed tighter into smaller rooms while nobles above debated which floral arrangements best represented the spirit of spring. And still the flowers kept arriving. Because as long as River stone remained beautiful from a distance, the people ruling it could continue pretending the rot beneath mattered less than the appearance above it.

By the time Rowan finally left the roosts, the sun had long since surrendered the sky to Bloomtide lanterns. Riverstone transformed at night. Darkness softened the fractured roads, concealed stains creeping down old stone, and turned sagging rooftops into silhouettes instead of symptoms. Lanternlight painted gold across the castle walls while thousands of candles flickered from balconies and upper terraces overlooking the city below. Music drifted through the streets from taverns, courtyards, and temporary festival stages assembled throughout the merchant districts. Laughter carried easily in the cool evening air, mixing with the clatter of wagon wheels and the distant ringing of cathedral bells somewhere higher up the hill. At night, the kingdom almost succeeded in becoming the lie it sold during daylight. Almost.

Rowan crossed the lower streets alone with his work shirt slung over one shoulder, and the lingering smell of wyvern slutch still buried deep in his skin despite rinsing twice at the stable pumps before leaving. The odor never fully disappeared. It settled into leather, hair, and fingertips no matter how hard someone scrubbed afterward, and Rowan still caught himself noticing that faintly sweet chemical edge beneath the grease and animal musk every time he thought he’d finally grown used to it.

Crowds flowed uphill toward the festival districts while Rowan drifted in the opposite direction through narrower side streets winding beneath the inner wall of the castle rise. Vendors shouted over one another beneath colorful awnings while musicians played fiddles and pipes beside overflowing taverns packed shoulder-to-shoulder with laborers pretending one evening of drink might somehow make tomorrow arrive slower. Bloomtide touched everyone eventually. Just not equally.

Near the upper market road, servants hung fresh garlands over buildings whose upper floors had partially collapsed years earlier. Lanterns glowed warmly through shattered windows carefully hidden behind flowers and silk. A pair of laborers strained to raise another decorative archway across the avenue while a foreman screamed at them to move faster before tomorrow’s royal procession. One of the men nearly collapsed beneath the weight before catching himself hard against the support beam, bloodying his nose badly enough to stain the front of his shirt. Nobody stopped working.

The musicians continued playing. The lanterns continued glowing. Somewhere nearby, a woman laughed loudly enough to briefly overpower the noise of the street while only a few yards away, another man vomited quietly into a gutter before wiping his mouth and returning to hauling crates toward the upper district. Riverstone carried on the way, dying things often do, by disguising exhaustion as perseverance long enough to survive another day.

Rowan climbed a narrow stone stairway built into the inner wall until the noise of the streets softened behind him. The overlook above the lower district had once served as a watch platform generations ago before newer towers replaced it. Now it mostly belonged to exhausted workers, young couples, and drunkards too poor for proper taverns. Tonight, however, the overlook sat empty except for Rowan, and the distant city stretched below him.

He settled onto the old stone ledge with a small paper bundle of fried river fish wrapped in grease-stained parchment. The food had already gone lukewarm by the time he sat down, but hunger lowered standards quickly. Below him, Riverstone spread outward beneath the castle in layered waves of lanternlight and drifting music while Bloomtide preparations continued deep into the evening. Servants still crossed the palace terraces carrying flowers and banners while musicians rehearsed somewhere within the upper gardens beyond his sight.

Above it all stood the palace. The upper terraces blazed with warm golden light spilling from tall windows and open balconies where servants moved endlessly through preparations for tomorrow’s ceremonies. From this distance, the castle almost appeared detached from the city beneath it, floating above the lower districts like something too beautiful to risk touching the mud below. Rowan found himself searching the balconies automatically.

He spotted her eventually, near the western terrace overlooking the gardens. Even from this distance, he recognized the way she moved. The princess stood beside a cluster of attendants while servants adjusted hanging lanterns around the balcony railings. Wind tugged loose strands of auburn hair free around her face while she laughed at something one of the older women beside her had said. A musician nearby tested strings on some delicate instrument Rowan could not name while servants crossed back and forth carrying trays and flower arrangements beneath the palace lights.

The upper terraces glowed with a kind of warmth Rowan had never once associated with the lower districts of Riverstone. Not simple physical warmth, though the palace windows certainly spilled enough golden light to suggest comforts beyond imagining, but the deeper sort built from safety, leisure, and the luxury of believing tomorrow would arrive gently. He tore another piece of fish apart and watched the balcony silently.

Sometimes he imagined conversations with her. Not grand declarations or absurd fantasies where stable boys somehow become princes. Usually, the imagined conversations stayed painfully small. He wondered what music she liked when musicians were not performing for court. Whether she hated royal dinners as much as she occasionally looked like she did. Whether she had ever walked the lower markets without guards surrounding her. In his imagination, she laughed easily, asked questions no nobles usually bothered asking, and sat beside him without seeming disgusted by the smell of leather, smoke, and wyvern musk clinging stubbornly to his clothes. In those quiet little fantasies, Rowan always sounded funnier than he did in real life. Clever without trying too hard. Relaxed. Worth listening to.

It embarrassed him a little, even inside his own head, because somewhere beneath the fantasy lived the understanding that proximity was not the same thing as possibility. Seeing the princess from the stable yard every morning no more made her part of his world than staring at the moon made it reachable. But loneliness had a way of feeding impossible hopes simply because they hurt less than having none at all.

Far below the overlook, petals drifted slowly through the gutters alongside sewage runoff, reflecting the palace lights in wavering streaks of gold. Somewhere deeper within the city, a wyvern screamed into the night with a sound so sharp and wounded it briefly silenced the music below. Then the fiddles resumed, the lanterns continued glowing, and Riverstone carried on pretending beauty and decay were not sharing the same bones.

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