Soul of the Crow: An Epic Dark Fantasy (Reapers of Veltuur Book 1)

truth. “I just… I need to see them.”
I let him make his own meaning out of the words, knowing full well that he thinks I’m talking about one thing, no idea that I’m using these visits for another.
After a brief moment of consideration, Borgravid switches the blunted spear into his other hand, the chainmail around his arm shifting over the leather encasing his chest and the golden plate in the center. With his closest hand free, he leans over and opens the door.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I don’t deserve your thanks, but if this is what you think you need, then I hope you find it so that you can move on to the next stage.”
I nod my goodbye and step through the doors before he changes his mind.
Relief overcomes me once I’m safely inside. Though everything inside is technically forbidden, I wouldn’t exactly call anything here dangerous, unless you consider something being so beautiful that it takes your breath away dangerous. White-trimmed leaves as wide as pillows hang from bushes, partially blocking the pristine paths of sand-colored pebbles. Flowers of every color of the rainbow peak from the foliage, bringing the garden to life.
I trail a hand lazily over the jagged bud of a ferocious-looking, yet baby-skin soft daminila. It is my favorite flower in the entire garden because I relate to it. As next in line, I am expected to present myself a certain way, a stern decision-maker whom people know not to cross. But I am just as soft and adorable as a baby firefur, at least judging from the sketches I’ve seen—of which, by the way, none of which have actually shown the fluffy rodent’s fur on fire or anything, despite their misleading name. The only difference between me and the daminila is that it gets to hide in this garden all day, and I don’t. That and its pollen is used as a sleeping aid, but sometimes the way my father looks at me when I’m talking, I think my words might have a sleeping effect to him too, so maybe we’re more alike than I give myself credit.
I continue down the path, the small rocks muted beneath my embroidered slippers. My hand glides over the smooth skin along my jaw, and I find myself smiling at the memory of Hayliel. Here, in the Forbidden Garden, I have no doubt she’d glow beside the verdant flora, her eyes sparkling like dew atop the leaves, her soft lips parting in a smile as she took in the beauty of it all, and—
My thoughts trail when I spy the memory tree. It’s not difficult to find being the largest growth in the entire enclosure and casting everything under its berth in a warm, embracing shadow. It is the last remaining memory tree and therefore off-limits to common folk. Well, it’s off-limits to everyone actually, myself included, and I’m pretty sure even Borgravid doesn’t know I’ve been violating that sacred rule…but its leaves have been the only helpful remedy to ease my grief as of late.
I duck beneath its dangling, stringy branches to make my way closer to its center. The trunk looks as strong as an ox, a thick hide of bark encasing the tree in armor. It would take a hundred ax blades to take a tree of this age down, which kind of makes you wonder how there’s only one left and how all of the others were destroyed. Not to sound harsh, but it’s probably for the better since the leaves of a memory tree have an addictive quality and, if used long-term, can seriously impair the mind.
And recently, I have willingly—stupidly—started learning why. Look, I’m not proud of it, but I can’t help myself. No one would be able to if they were in my position. By creating a tea with just one of its leaves, I get to recall any memory of my choosing, and live out the moment vividly, as if it was really happening. In my memories, Rikeet, the rightful heir, is still alive. So is my mother.
Reaching up to a full branch of coin-size leaves, I pluck a dozen with careful fingers and place them into a pouch before securing it back on the inside of my robe. I won’t be able to use them until later tonight when I am alone once more in the confines of my quarters, but having them on me, the prospect of seeing my brother and mother tonight, will be enough to get me through the day.
As I duck around the hanging branches, I catch sight of the steamy greenhouse tucked in the farthest corner of the garden, the reason Borgravid thinks I come here. It’s almost entirely concealed in the overgrowth of the memory tree. Most people don’t even know it’s in here, but it is the main reason that the garden is forbidden now.
It seems impossible, but my feet are actually moving faster than my mind, carrying me to the greenhouse before I can think better of it. Going inside always only results in more feelings that I would rather not have, but every time I see it, I have to look.
“Oh,” I sigh on a long breath. “What am I doing to myself?”
Despite not having a rebellious bone in my body, I enter the greenhouse.
Under the teal-tinged glass, the micro-world is tropical and thriving. The air is stifling, and I catch myself starting to wheeze. Kings aren’t supposed to wheeze. They’re supposed to be strong and daunting, the kind of person that makes people quake when they enter a room, but even my lungs disagree with my soon-to-be new title.
I traverse the overgrown foliage like an explorer, though I am anything but. Exploring implies adventure, adventure implies risks, and risks are terrifying.
I make my way to the back wall, where a hundred glass compartments are stacked on top of each other. My breath hitches. No matter how many times I come here, it never seems to get easier.
I force myself to