The Prince of Peculiar Plights

A Garden of Teeth

The air in the alley didn’t just vibrate; it screamed. Valerian’s vision tunneled, the silver armor of the approaching guards warping into liquid mercury under the sheer pressure of his aura.

“Valerian, wait!” Isolde’s voice cut through the roar. Her hand clamped down on his, her fingers digging into his palm. “Don't kill them! If you shed blood here, there’s no coming back!”

“They’re trying to take you,” Valerian growled, his voice sounding like two grinding tectonic plates. “I’m not letting them touch you.”

“Then don't let them!” Isolde shifted her grip, sliding her hand up to his wrist. “Ground it! Don't push out—pull in! Make the world stop, not break!”

Valerian let out a jagged breath. He looked at the lead guard, whose sword was already mid-swing. Pull in, he thought. Be the sinkhole, not the mountain.

The discharge was silent. A wave of translucent, honey-thick energy rippled outward. The guards didn't explode; they simply froze. One moment they were charging, and the next, they were suspended in a block of shimmering, solidified air that looked like amber.

“Go! Now!” Theodric shouted, grabbing both of them by the collars and dragging them toward the back exit of the courtyard. “That won't hold forever, and I’d rather not be here when the amber turns back into angry men with sharp things!”

*

Three days later, the sun was far too bright for a man who felt like a walking bruise.

The Royal Botanical Gardens were a masterpiece of curated nature—all white marble paths, weeping willows, and flowers that had the decency to stay inanimate. Valerian sat on the edge of a silk picnic blanket, picking at a crustless cucumber sandwich like it was a piece of evidence.

“You’re doing that thing again, Valerian,” Rosaline Mourvale said, popping a grape into her mouth. She was lounging across from him, her lilac dress spread out like a fan. “The brooding-hero-in-exile look. It was cute when we were ten. Now it just makes you look like you have a stomach ache.”

Valerian didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the clearing, where Isolde was walking through the topiary with a tall, slender man in a cream-colored doublet.

“Who is he, Rosaline?” Valerian asked, his voice flat.

“Lord Elian of House Vane,” Rosaline replied airily. “He’s a third cousin on her mother’s side. Very stable. Very wealthy. His family’s magic is practically a lullaby—they make things glow a soft, comforting gold. No glitter, no floating desks, and definitely no amber-trapped guards.”

“He looks like a mannequin,” Valerian muttered.

“He looks like a safe bet,” Rosaline countered, leaning forward with a sharp glint in her eyes. “Isolde needs safe, Val. Her family is already under fire because of her ‘association’ with you. My father says the Council is looking for any excuse to brand her an accomplice to your... accidents.”

“I’m not an accident anymore,” Valerian snapped. A nearby rosebush shivered, its petals turning a dull, metallic grey for a split second before snapping back to red.

“Careful,” Rosaline warned, gesturing to the bush. “But seriously, look at them. Elian is charming, he’s polite, and he’s currently explaining the history of the Northern Reach to her without making the ground shake. It’s refreshing.”

Across the lawn, Elian laughed at something Isolde said, his hand lingering just a bit too long on her elbow as he guided her toward a cluster of rare Crimson Widows—the most beautiful, and most temperamental, roses in the garden.

“He’s touching her,” Valerian said, his knuckles turning white.

“Yes, Valerian. That’s what suitors do. They touch elbows. They offer hands. They don’t hide in the library and turn the soup neon pink.” Rosaline sighed, reaching out to pat his knee. “I’m trying to help you. If you can’t show her you’re more than a ticking bomb, you should let someone like Elian step in. It would be better for her.”

“Better for her to be bored to death?”

“Better for her to not be arrested by the Queen’s Guard!” Rosaline lowered her voice. “Go talk to them. Be a person. Be charming. If you can’t be charming, at least try not to be a hazard.”

Valerian stood up, his legs feeling like lead. The static was back, a low-voltage hum that made the hair on his arms stand up. He marched across the grass, his eyes locked on Elian’s hand, which was now hovering near Isolde’s waist.

“Lord Morcant!” Elian beamed as Valerian approached. “We were just discussing the delicate nature of the Crimson Widow. Isolde tells me you have a fascination with botany?”

“I have a fascination with things that have thorns,” Valerian said, his voice tight.

Isolde looked at him, her eyes narrowing in that way that usually meant she was measuring the atmospheric pressure around his head. “Valerian. I thought you were busy with the sandwiches.”

“The sandwiches were... insufficient,” Valerian said. He stepped between Elian and Isolde, forcing the other man to take a step back. “Lord Vane. I didn't know your family’s light magic was so effective at boring people into submission.”

Elian’s smile faltered, but he didn't lose his composure. “A bit of stability is a virtue in these times, don't you think? Especially with the city in such an... unpredictable state.”

“Unpredictability has its charms,” Valerian said.

“Perhaps,” Elian replied, his gaze flickering to the rosebush behind Valerian. “But I prefer my flowers to stay in their beds. Speaking of which, Isolde, did you know the Vane estate has a garden of Moon-Lilies that only bloom during a solar eclipse? I’d love to show you. It’s quite the romantic setting.”

Valerian felt a sharp, hot prickle at the base of his spine. Romantic?

“I’m sure the Moon-Lilies are lovely,” Isolde said, her voice cautious. “But I have a lot of work at the archives—”

“Oh, I’ve already cleared it with your father,” Elian interrupted, stepping closer again and reaching for Isolde’s hand. “He agrees that a change of scenery—and company—would be beneficial for your reputation.”

The moment Elian’s fingers brushed Isolde’s skin, something in Valerian’s chest snapped. It wasn't the usual roar of magic; it was a cold, sharp spike of possessive fury.

The ground didn't shake. Instead, the Crimson Widow roses behind them began to change.

The soft, velvet petals didn't just curl—they hardened. Within seconds, the blossoms grew rows of jagged, ivory-white teeth. The stems thickened, turning into muscled vines that pulsed with a sickly green light.

“What in the—?” Elian shrieked, jumping back as a rose snapped its jaws inches from his nose.

“Valerian!” Isolde yelled, grabbing his arm.

But the roses were already in motion. They weren't just blooming; they were hunting. The vines lashed out like whips, snagging the hem of Elian’s cream doublet.

“Get it off me! It’s biting! The flower is biting me!” Elian scrambled backward, his dignified persona dissolving into a series of undignified yelps.

“Stay back!” Rosaline screamed from the picnic blanket, though she looked more fascinated than terrified.

“Valerian, stop this right now!” Isolde commanded, her hand glowing with a soft blue light as she tried to dampen the surge.

“I’m not doing anything!” Valerian insisted, though his eyes were glowing a fierce, rhythmic orange. “They’re just... reacting!”

“They’re trying to eat a Lord!” Isolde shoved him toward the fountain. “Fix it! Pull the energy back!”

Valerian watched as a particularly large rose snapped at Elian’s buttocks, the man hopping over a hedge with a grace he hadn't shown earlier. “I don't know how! The static is too jagged!”

Isolde didn't wait for him. She stepped toward the aggressive flora, her hands raised. She didn't use a spell; she used herself. She walked directly into the reach of the biting vines, her presence acting like a cooling mist.

As she moved, the teeth began to recede, the vines softening back into harmless stems. One rose tried to snap at her, but as soon as its petals brushed her sleeve, it wilted into a harmless, sleepy bud.

Within a minute, the clearing was silent again, save for the distant sound of Elian sprinting toward the garden gates, shouting something about a lawsuit.

Isolde stood in the center of the ruined rosebed, her chest heaving. She turned slowly to face Valerian, her expression unreadable.

“Well,” Rosaline called out, walking over and dusting off her skirts. “That was certainly more exciting than a lecture on Moon-Lilies. I think Elian might need a new tailor. And a therapist.”

“Rosaline, give us a minute,” Isolde said, her voice dangerously quiet.

“Of course, darling. I’ll go see if I can find the rest of the sandwiches. I think one of the roses is currently chewing on the ham.” Rosaline gave Valerian a look that was half-pity and half-amusement before disappearing behind the willow trees.

Valerian stood by the fountain, his hands trembling. The glow in his eyes was fading, replaced by a deep, hollow shame. “Isolde, I—”

“Don't,” she said, walking toward him. She stopped just outside his reach. “Don't tell me you didn't mean to. Don't tell me it was an accident.”

“I didn't mean for them to grow teeth!” Valerian said, his voice cracking. “I just... I didn't like the way he was looking at you. Or touching you.”

“So you turned the garden into a carnivore?”

“He was being a prick! He was talking about your ‘reputation’ like you were a piece of damaged property he was doing a favor for.”

Isolde crossed her arms. “And you think scaring him half to death helped? Now my reputation isn't just 'associated with an unstable mage.' It’s 'associated with a man who uses sentient flora to assault his rivals.'”

Valerian looked at his boots. “I’m sorry. I just... the static gets louder when I’m angry.”

“You weren't just angry, Valerian,” she said, stepping closer, her voice softening. “You were jealous.”

Valerian stiffened. “I wasn't jealous. I was concerned. For your safety. He’s a Vane. They’re notoriously boring. You’d have been asleep within the hour.”

“Valerian Morcant,” Isolde said, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You are the worst liar in the seven kingdoms. You were jealous that he touched my hand. You were jealous that he offered me a life that didn't involve running from the guard.”

“I wasn't,” he insisted, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I don't have feelings like that. I’m a weapon, remember? Weapons don't get jealous of minor lords in cream doublets.”

“Is that so?”

Isolde reached out, her fingers grazing his cheek. The contact was electric, but this time, it didn't feel like a dampening field. It felt like a spark.

“Yes,” Valerian whispered, his eyes fixed on hers. “I don't feel anything for you other than... gratitude. For the archives. And the dampening.”

“Liar,” she breathed.

She pulled her hand away, expecting the usual surge of static.

But the magic didn't go for the roses this time. It didn't go for the ground or the air.

A low, rumbling sound began to echo from the trees surrounding the clearing. Valerian looked up, his face pale.

“What now?” he groaned.

The giant willow trees began to shudder. Slowly, almost rhythmically, thick, dark droplets began to leak from the leaves. They fell onto the grass with heavy thuds, the scent of rich, dark cocoa filling the air.

Isolde caught a drop on her finger and tasted it. Her eyes widened. “Valerian... the trees are weeping chocolate.”

“I’m not jealous!” Valerian shouted at the sky, even as a literal river of warm milk chocolate began to flow from a nearby oak.

“Of course you aren't,” Isolde laughed, looking at the surreal, sweet-smelling mess he’d made of the royal gardens. “You’re just a man who really, really likes dessert.”

Valerian stood in the rain of chocolate, his face burning red. “I hate this magic. I hate it so much.”

“I don't know,” Isolde said, stepping into his space and wiping a smudge of chocolate from his chin. “I think it’s starting to grow on me.”