Chapter 13: Aftermath of His Love

The gardener made his rounds through the royal garden as he always did, ensuring everything was in its place. When he passed by the rose bush, now so familiar to him, he didn’t notice right away that all nine blossoms were open. As he continued working, the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. He turned back to the bush, his heart racing.

“Nine...” he whispered, counting the blooms. His voice grew louder with every syllable. “NINE!” Excitement flooded his chest. “NINE!!!”

Without a second thought, he bolted toward the castle, his dirty boots pounding through the halls, heading straight for the throne room. He skidded to a stop at the entrance, where a guard barred his way.

“I must speak with the king!” the gardener gasped, urgency in every word.

“The king is busy with business. You’ll have to wait,” the guard replied firmly.

“But this is important! The blooms—all nine blooms are open!”

Chamberlain Alistair, overhearing the commotion, approached swiftly. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his gaze shifting between the gardener and the guard.

“The rose bush,” the gardener replied breathlessly. “All nine blossoms ... they’re open!”

Alistair’s eyes widened in shock. “Are you certain?”

“Completely,” the gardener confirmed.

Alistair wasted no time. He ushered the gardener into the room and stepped before the king and the gathered nobles. “Your Highness, urgent news,” he said, bowing his head.

The king, sensing the gravity in Alistair’s tone, rose from his chair. “What is it?”

“The rose bush, Sire ... All nine blooms have opened.” the gardener said before Alistair could speak.

King Aric stumbled backward, the weight of the words crashing into him. “All nine?” he repeated, dropping to one knee as emotion overwhelmed him. The nobles, seeing their king falter, stood, unsure of what was happening.

But Aric, regaining his composure, stood tall once more. “Excuse me, but I must go,” he said, bowing briefly before hurrying out of the room toward the garden.

The nobles, curious and concerned, followed at a more sedate pace, arriving just as the king knelt beside the rose bush. He caressed the open blossoms, his face a mixture of awe and hope.

“Where is my son? The concubines? The princess? Where are they?” King Aric asked urgently, without looking away from the bush.

Chamberlain Alistair quickly checked his watch. “They should be in the nursery or in Prince Dorian’s chambers, Sire.”

“Go. Fetch them all. Bring them here,” the king commanded.

Alistair rushed to obey, his footsteps echoing through the castle halls as he ran to do the bidding of the king. He knocked urgently on the door to the nursery, and Matron Agnes answered.

“Chamberlain? What’s all the urgency?”

“The concubines—where are they?”

“In the nursery, tending to the children. Why?”

“Gather them, quickly. Bring them to the rose bush in the garden. I’m fetching the prince and princess.”

Matron Agnes didn’t hesitate, gathering the concubines and their children and escorting them to the garden. Meanwhile, Alistair found Dorian, Roslyn, and Anya with their newborns, and hurried them all to the garden as well.

King Aric was still kneeling by the rose bush when they arrived. Dorian, leading the group, approached him cautiously. “Father, what is it?”

Aric rose to his feet, his eyes shining. “The blooms ... they’re all open. Look.”

The group gasped collectively as they saw the rose bush, its fragrance filling the air—an intense mixture of wildflowers, fresh-cut grass, and the promise of rain. The calming scent settled over them, soothing the children so they remained quiet.

“Dorian,” the king began, moving to stand before his son. “The rose knows. Do you now admit that you love yourself, just as these women love you?”

A tear rolled down Dorian’s cheek as he nodded. “Yes, Father. I love myself—as a man, even with a beast’s exterior.”

King Aric smiled, pride filling his chest. “Good. Come, each of you. Touch a thorn and offer your blood to the flowers.”

Dorian, still unsure of what was happening, knelt by the rose bush doing as his father said. He pressed his thumb against a thorn, drawing a bead of blood. With reverence, he touched the ninth bloom, leaving a smear of crimson on its petal. One by one, Roslyn and the concubines followed, each offering their blood to the roses.

As Elara, the last of them, approached the bush, the words of the curse echoed in her mind:

To end the curse and break the beast, Seek the flower that thrives where none feast. Not beauty, wealth, or noble might, But a heart that sees in the darkest night. When love is found where fear takes root, The thorn shall bloom and bear its fruit. And when blood is drawn from those bound by love, The beast shall fall, and rise above.

As she pressed her bloodied thumb to the final bloom, a scream tore from Dorian’s throat. He collapsed to the ground, the sound of his agony reverberating through the garden.

“Dorian!” Roslyn cried, rushing to his side with the other concubines. She touched his face, frantic, as he lay motionless.

After a moment, Dorian stirred, his body trembling as he pushed himself up. As he rose to his feet, the fur that had covered his back slid off like a cloak, falling to the earth in a heap. The horns atop his head cracked and fell away, landing beside the discarded fur. The teeth in his mouth returned to normal human teeth just as his feet that had been animalistic making him walk on the balls of his feet, returned to normal human feet.

Before them all, Dorian stood—no longer a beast, but a man. His broad shoulders were bare, his arms hairless, his hands no longer clawed. He stared at his arms in disbelief, his transformation complete.

“Dorian...” The voice was a soft whisper, spoken by Anya, his youngest and most timid concubine. She started to move toward him, afraid that it was a dream.

Roslyn and Elara stepped forward, their hands trembling as they reached out to touch him. Dorian opened his arms, and they fell into his embrace, their hands roaming over his now-human skin.

Dorian’s gaze shifted to his father, then to his mother, who both stood nearby, tears streaming down their faces in joy. He looked back at his wife and concubines—all of them crying, all of them overjoyed.

As they embraced him, Dorian raised his arms to the sky and let out a triumphant scream—a cry of victory over the curse that had bound him his entire life and that would not be passed onto his children.

As the celebration spread from the garden to the throne room, the excitement of Dorian’s curse being lifted filled the entire castle. Food and drink flowed freely, turning the moment into a festival that lasted for several days, with joy spilling down into the town below.