They had been given the cabin for privacy.
Close enough to the palace to feel the pulse of power, far enough away to feel like a choice instead of a command. Nestled among old trees and stone paths, it sat near Reign’s grandfather and his human mate, Clarise—the palace head cook whose presence softened the sharp edges of royal life.
Celeste loved it there.
She loved Clarise most of all.
She visited often—sometimes with baskets of herbs she’d grown herself, sometimes with nothing more than questions and quiet company. They traded recipes, remedies, and stories. Clarise taught her how to coax warmth from simple ingredients, how to make food feel like safety. In return, Celeste shared old herbal knowledge, small things meant for comfort rather than power.
They became, slowly and without
