That Gown Designed Only for Him
# The Seer’s Lonely Bloom ## Chapter 1: The Last Dance The air in the tavern was thick with pipe-smoke and laughter, a warm, living blanket that did nothing to touch the cold ache in Lethea’s bones. Tonight, she had dressed for herself. T
Chapter 1
The air in the tavern was thick with pipe-smoke and laughter, a warm, living blanket that did nothing to touch the cold ache in Lethea’s bones. Tonight, she had dressed for herself. The gown was a whisper of midnight silk, a constellation of tiny, enchanted crystals catching the low firelight across its plunging back. It flowed around her legs like dark water, the high slits on either side revealing glimpses of pale gold skin with every subtle shift of her hips. She sat at her usual corner table, a glass of untouched wine before her, her almond-shaped nails—sharp and meticulously painted a deep plum—tapping a silent rhythm against the wood.
Her eyes, glowing a soft, sorrowful silver tonight, scanned the room. They found him, as they always did.
Garrett stood by the great hearth, a king holding court among his people. The firelight gilded the scars on his muscular arms, played in the dark waves of his hair tied loosely at his nape. He was listening to his sister, Diana, a fond smile on his lips, but his gaze—those keen, observant blue eyes—kept drifting, snagging on the dark silhouette in the corner before pulling away, as if burned.
Lethea’s full lips, pierced vertically at the center, curved into a bitter smile. *See me*, she thought, the familiar mantra. *Just once, truly see me.*
She remembered the other gowns. The emerald wrap-dress she’d worn during the Spring Revel, its train floating behind her as she’d twirled, hoping to catch his eye. She’d finally approached him, heart hammering against her ribs. “The night is beautiful,” she’d said, her voice soft. “It would be finer shared.” He had stared at her, his expression unreadable, before a messenger had arrived, calling her away to a vision of a collapsing mine shaft. She’d traced away in a shimmer of gold, the taste of rejection already bitter on her tongue.
Then there was the crimson gown, scandalously short in the front with a waterfall of silk cascading behind her. She’d found him on the balcony, under the stars. “I am tired of waiting, Garrett,” she had whispered, the words leaving her in a rush. “My feelings are not a secret. They are a promise.” He had turned to her, his eyes full of a yearning so profound it stole her breath, only to step back, his voice rough. “It cannot be, Lethea. You deserve more.” He had walked away, leaving her clutching the cold stone rail, the fabric of her beautiful dress feeling like a fool’s costume.
Tonight, the gown was a funeral shroud for her hope. She watched as a group of his friends clapped him on the back, their teasing laughter carrying across the room. She saw Diana glance her way, concern etching her features. They all knew. The entire mountain knew of the immortal seer’s lonely, fruitless love for their king.
The cold, a physical pain that seeped into her very marrow, intensified. It was the cold of isolation, of watching centuries of connections bloom and fade while she remained, a constant, weeping star. *Why am I so unlovable?* The dark thought, her oldest companion, coiled in her chest. She felt the phantom weight of her wings, hidden beneath her skin, a burden of power that felt like chains.
His gaze found hers again, and this time, it held. Across the smoky room, a silent conversation passed. In his eyes, she saw the same torment she felt in her soul—a war between desire and some deep, hidden fear. She saw him excuse himself from his friends and begin to move through the crowd, his path a direct line to her corner.
Lethea’s breath hitched. Her skin began to emit its faint, prophetic glow, a betrayal of her rising emotion. This was it. Not another dismissal whispered on a balcony, not an evasion masked by duty. This was the confrontation she had both craved and dreaded.
She lifted her chin, the crystals on her gown scattering light like shattered dreams. The sharp points of her nails stilled. He was close enough now that she could see the flecks of grey in his beard, the tension in his broad shoulders.
He stopped before her table, the noise of the tavern fading into a distant hum. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, his eyes tracing the lines of the gown, the sharp cut of her pixie hair, the luminous pain in her silver eyes.
“Lethea,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the hollow space between her ribs.
She did not smile. She waited, every fiber of her being poised for the blow, ready to finally trace away from this pain forever, to let the beautiful, lonely goddess fade into myth once more.
Chapter 2
He reached for her, his large, calloused hand covering her smaller one where it rested on the table. His touch was hesitant, a tremor running through his fingers. His thumb brushed the razor-sharp point of her almond-shaped nail, a gesture so tender it stole the air from her lungs.
“Lethea,” he repeated, his voice a low, trembling rumble that seemed to vibrate from the stone floor into her very core. “I have watched you in every gown. The emerald one, when you twirled and the light caught your wings for a moment. The crimson one, when you stood under the stars and told me your feelings were a promise. I felt my heart break each time you turned away, thinking I had driven you off.”
His blue eyes, usually so keen and guarded, were pools of raw, undisguised torment. The firelight danced in them, but it was a cold, lonely flame. “The truth is…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to their joined hands before forcing itself back to her luminous silver eyes. “The truth is I fear I cannot satisfy you. That my past… it left me broken. In ways I cannot speak of lightly.”
The confession hung between them, a fragile, painful thing. Lethea’s faint glow pulsed, her skin alight with the surge of his emotion—his shame, his fear, a deep well of ancient hurt. The cold isolation inside her cracked, not with relief, but with a devastating understanding. It was never about her. It was never because she was unlovable.
“You think,” she whispered, her own voice unsteady, “that I, who see the fractures in the world before they form, would not see the ones in you? Or that I would care for them any less?” She turned her hand under his, lacing their fingers together, her sharp nails a gentle threat against his skin. “You pull away, saying I deserve more, making decisions for me. That is the only cruelty here, Garrett.”
Chapter 3
Her words, soft as a knife, carved a new space in the smoky air. The anger that had armored her for centuries dissolved, leaving only a raw, exposed nerve. The faint silver glow of her skin pulsed, matching the rhythm of her quickened heart.
She took the step that closed the final distance between them. The midnight silk of her gown whispered against his sturdy tunic. She could feel the solid wall of his chest, the heat of him even through the layers. Her sharp nails, still laced with his, pressed lightly into the back of his hand, an anchor.
“Then show me,” she breathed, her voice a husky whisper meant only for him. Her silver eyes, glowing with a soft, desperate light, held his gaze prisoner. “Show me what you’re afraid of losing.”
She leaned in, pressing her body fully against his. The high slits of her gown parted, and the warm, smooth skin of her thigh brushed against his leg. The crystals on her dress scattered pinpricks of light across his beard. She felt the shudder that went through him, a deep, visceral tremor.
Garrett’s free hand came up, hovering for a heartbeat at the small of her back before settling there, his palm searing through the thin silk. His breath hitched. The fear in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it was now mingled with a dawning, desperate hope.
“Here?” he murmured, his voice thick. The tavern crowd was a distant murmur, a world away.
“Yes,” she insisted, her lips brushing the rough line of his jaw as she spoke. “The fear lives in the dark. Bring it into the light with me.” She shifted, rolling her hips subtly against him, a deliberate, claiming pressure. A silent promise. A challenge.
He groaned, a low, pained sound that was also a surrender. His head dipped, his forehead coming to rest against hers. The public intimacy of it, surrounded by his people yet utterly secluded in their own sphere, was more vulnerable than any hidden chamber. He was showing her, in this first, trembling touch, the depth of his terror—and the greater depth of his trust.
“I am yours,” he whispered against her skin, the words a sacred oath torn from a wounded place. “I have always been yours. I was just… afraid to be a disappointment.”
Lethea’s answer was to tilt her head and catch his lips with her own.