The abandoned royal greenhouse stands at the outermost extremity of the palace grounds, its glass panes stained with decades of neglect. After my discovery of the Shadowblight and heated meeting with Prince Thorne yesterday, I've been pulled to this unknown spot referenced in Elm's stories.
"No one's used it since the old queen's time," he told me when I asked. "Some claim it's cursed. Others believe it simply fell out of favor when the winter magics became prevalent in the royal family."
The big iron key Elm unwillingly supplied spins stiffly in the lock. Hinges moan in protest as I push open the door, revealing the aroma of dormant green things and old magic. Unlike the withering gardens outside, this location feels preserved rather than dead—as if time itself has been suspended behind these walls.
Shafts of early light flow through the dusty glass ceiling, highlighting dust motes that dance like little spirits. I proceed deeper inside, removing cobwebs from my path. Ancient gardening equipment sit on hooks, and empty clay pots line worn wooden shelves. Something about this location resonates with my magic, tugging me onward like an invisible link.
At the center of the greenhouse sits a round stone table, its surface etched with elaborate designs of vines and flowers I don't identify. I trace my fingertips down the grooves, feeling a faint tingle of dormant energy. Around the table's edge, unusual symbols are etched—not the standard runic writing used in modern magical works, but something older.
"What secrets are you hiding?" I mumble, my voice seeming little in the enormous room.
A faint green glow emanates from between the stone table's joints as my magic automatically responds to the setting. The light pulses once, twice, then steadies, revealing a concealed compartment beneath the table's surface. My heart beats as I slowly slide open the concealed drawer.
Inside lies a leather-bound book, its cover unmarked except for a simple embossed rose. When I raise it from its resting place, it feels warm to the touch, as if it has been waiting for someone with earth magic to locate it. The pages are amazingly maintained, replete with fine handwriting and botanical designs unlike any I've seen in the palace libraries.
"The Balanced Cycles," states the title page. "A Complete Record of Thornwall's Founding Magics by Queen Rosa, First of Her Name."
I collapse into a dusty stool, entranced by what I'm holding—a primary source from Thornwall's founding age, penned by the fabled first queen herself. The royal libraries contain only sanitized history approved by generations of winter-magic kings. This could be the sole unaltered account remaining.
Hours slip by as I devour the journal's contents. Queen Rosa talks about the ancient magical balance that defended Thornwall—a harmony between winter and spring magics that generated fortifications far greater than each could muster alone. The king, her husband, commanded winter magic that maintained and protected. She possessed spring magic that nourished and rejuvenated. Together, they established the magical gardens as the tangible expression of their balanced abilities.
"The thornwall roses represent our unified strength," she added. "His winter hardens their thorns to impenetrable sharpness; my spring magic ensures they perpetually renew and proliferate. Neither magic alone could give such flawless protection."
My fingers tremble as I turn to a section headed "The Balanced Bloodlines." Queen Rosa exposes something omitted from all official histories—the royal family once carried both magical affinities, carefully maintaining the balance through smart marriages. Winter-gifted heirs would marry spring-gifted companions, ensuring both magical types remained in the bloodline.
"Should any magic become dominant," she cautions, "the equilibrium will fail. The wards will weaken. The shadows will return."
I nearly drop the book when I read the next passage: "Those with spring magic will notice the danger first. The plants talk to them as they communicate to me. Should winter ever reign unchallenged, seek those with earth affinity among the common folk, for we disseminated seeds of our bloodline widely, ensuring spring magic could never be totally obliterated from Thornwall."
The understanding hits me like a physical punch. The spring magic lineage wasn't lost—it was purposefully concealed among regular families like mine. The royal family became exclusively winter-dominant not by accident but by deliberate purification of their spring-magic relatives.
As the greenhouse grows dimmer with approaching evening, I notice the final pages have detailed images of miraculous plants that no longer exist in the royal gardens—hybrid creations that harnessed both winter and spring energies simultaneously. Queen Rosa's records indicate how these plants formed the cornerstone of Thornwall's strongest protecting barriers.
The sound of footfalls outside startles me from my reading. I immediately return the book to its hiding spot, my head racing with ramifications. The greenhouse door swings wide, showing Prince Thorne's tall form against the dusk sky.
"I thought I might find you here," he replies, his voice carrying a sense of interest rather than accusation. "Few venture to this place anymore. What led you to my grandmother's sanctuary?"
I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. Does he know the truth about Thornwall's magical history? About the planned imbalance that now threatens the kingdom? About his own family's role in cleansing the spring magic bloodline?
"The plants," I answer thoughtfully. "Even abandoned, there's magic here that feels... familiar. Like it recognizes me somehow."
Something flickers over his face—a flash of knowledge quickly masked under his normal mask of regal indifference. He steps fully into the greenhouse, and I notice frost doesn't spread from his footsteps here as it does elsewhere in the royal grounds.
"My grandmother was the last royal to spend time here," he recalls, looking around with what might be nostalgia. "She died when I was little, but I remember her bringing me here. The council felt she was odd, too interested in traditional methods that no longer helped Thornwall".
I wonder if Queen Rosa's cautions about balance had been passed down through generations of queens, protected by the women even while the kings embraced winter's power. Had Thorne's grandma tried to warn the royal family before her death?
"Tomorrow we should focus on the western garden section," Thorne replies, plainly changing the subject. "The moon orchids there power our weakest ward."
I agree, following him leaving the greenhouse with one backward glimpse at the stone table containing Queen Rosa's journal. The secret understanding burns within me like a blazing light. The magical imbalance isn't just a natural disaster—it's the product of generations of purposeful choices by the winter-magic rulers to exterminate their spring-magic equivalents.
And nevertheless, despite their efforts, spring magic survived. In villages like mine. In individuals like myself.
As we exit, I notice Prince Thorne has halted just outside the door, observing me with unfathomable silver eyes. "Whatever you discovered in there," he says gently, "be careful whoever you tell. Not everyone in the palace loves the ancient knowledge."
Before I can react, he turns and strides back toward the palace, leaving me wondering if I've found an ally or if he too is committed to winter's dominance over spring.