Crk x Reader [ Royal Au! ]
[Vanilla x reader implied/ Herb x reader implied/ Shadow Milk x reader Implied]
Warning’s : Bad writing, human body instead of cookie body, very long, I don’t know about the lore, small mention of Alcohol.
A/N : This is the story I enjoyed writing the most. I put a lot of effort into trying to making it vivid and immersive, so you can truly picture everything as it unfolds. I hope you enjoy reading this first part as much as I enjoyed creating it! I tried a small new style.😚🫶🧡
———
It was a golden morning in the Vanilla Kingdom, one of those rare, hushed dawns that seemed to glide in on tiptoe, unrolling sunlight across the landscape as if it were parchment made of silk and saffron. The hills, soft and pale like spooned meringue, caught the first light with a quiet shimmer, and the spires of the Vanilla Palace stretched high into the sky, their cream-colored stone glowing faintly like candle wax kissed by the sun.
The air carried the sweet scent of vanilla blossom and warmed honeycomb, mingled with the earthy breath of morning soil. A gentle breeze wandered through the city’s winding cobbled streets and up to the terraces, where maids were pinning freshly laundered linens onto balcony lines that swayed like sails. The sheets danced lightly in the breeze, billowing like clouds, their edges catching the light and casting shifting shadows over marble balustrades.
The bells of Sunspire Tower, cast in polished gold and tuned to a warm, low chime, rang out the hour in tones that melted into the morning air. It was not just the sound of time passing, it was the heartbeat of the kingdom. A signal that the day had begun, but gently, as if even the sun respected the slow rhythm of the life of the Vanilla Kingdom.
Far from the bustle of breakfast trays and the rustle of courtiers’ silk slippers, you found yourself in your sanctuary the Whispering Vanilla Grove, a sacred and secret part of the royal gardens nestled beyond the southern conservatory. This place had never known haste. Its trees, tall and slender, with bark like pale parchment and leaves the color of old gold, swayed lazily above the glade, whispering stories only the wind could understand.
The path here was made of crushed pearlstone, soft beneath your feet and warm with the first kiss of sunlight. Blue primroses bordered the trail, growing in dense, velvety clusters like pools of sky scattered on the earth. Dew clung to their petals like crystal sugar, and as you walked, the moisture darkened the hem of your linen skirt.
You, the Royal Gardener of Vanilla Kingdom, moved with practiced grace and quiet reverence. Your apron was dusted in dry soil and golden pollen, your fingers stained with the rich color of life. There was no higher office, no greater pride, your duty was not to the court, but to the roots of the kingdom itself. You were the keeper of its gentlest secrets.
You knelt by a prepared bed at the base of a curved bench carved from vanilla wood, its scent faintly sweet even after all these years, and began to press lily bulbs into the earth. These were not ordinary lilies. These were White Lilies, white as milkglass, bred to bloom under the full spring moon, their petals glowing faintly at night with a warmth that some said could soothe even the most restless heart. The bulbs were round and cool in your hand, like smooth eggs of some ancient, gentle creature. One by one, you pressed them into the soil, tucking them beneath a thin layer of moss and mulch, whispering a quiet wish with each planting.
Around you, the grove was alive with quiet things. Bees, slow and drowsy with the morning’s richness, hovered around the nearby blossoms, their buzz low and contented. A pair of doves preened on a tree branch above you, their feathers pale as cream, and from somewhere deeper in the garden came the soft splash of a fish leaping in one of the ornamental pools.
And then, like a blessing, a golden butterfly, its wings dusted in patterns that shimmered like embroidery thread, landed lightly on your shoulder. You paused, holding your breath, as to not afraid the little insect. In the hundred of stories who lives in the kingdom, such butterflies were said to carry whispers from the king himself, the one who had sewn the first seeds of peace in the kingdom with nothing but his words and wildflowers. Some called him the King of the Land of Peace and Healing. They said his presence lingered always, in the garden he had first planted, in the gentle breeze that stirred the leaves, and in the hearts of those who chose to listen rather than rule.
The butterfly lingered for a moment before drifting off into the light, and you smiled faintly, a quiet moment shared between worlds.
As you continued your work, the golden bell rang again, marking the next hour. But in the Whispering Grove, time did not hurry. It bent, softened, and curled like steam from a vanilla-scented teacup. You were part of this place. The soil clung to you, not as dirt, but as a promise, that beauty must be nurtured, gently, again and again.
Soon enough, the palace would fully awaken. Pages would run along corridors with scrolls and messages. Lady Mûre, the court florist, would likely wander in looking for inspiration. One of the advisor of the King himself, serene and slow-spoken, might pass by the garden paths during his morning walk, dressed in ivory and gold, his slippers leaving no sound upon the marble stones.
But for now, in this still golden hour, you were alone with the lilies and the primroses. Alone, but not lonely. The Vanilla Kingdom lived and breathed around you, not with the roar of conquest, but with the soft, golden hush of things well loved and quietly tended.
And somewhere, beneath the earth, the bulbs you planted began their slow, secret work, awakening, growing, remembering the warmth of your hands.
You were still in the garden, hands gently pressing bulbs into the soil, when soft footsteps approached, not those of a servant, but quieter, more deliberate. You glanced up and, for a moment, thought you were mistaken.
There he was Pure Vanilla, the king himself. But not in his usual regalia of white robes and golden sashes. Today, he wore a simple shirt of cream linen, its only adornment a crimson ruffle at the collar, pinned with what seemed a sapphire crystal, the blue gem that symbolized the Vanilla Kingdom heart. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing his forearms to the morning sun. No crown, no guards, just a man returning to something familiar.
The light caught his face as he approached, revealing a striking contrast, his skin a soft, warm brown, kissed by the sun, his hair a fine, pale blond, tousled by the breeze, and most striking of all, his eyes, one a cool, ice-blue, the other a golden amber, framed by long, light lashes that seemed almost too delicate for someone who bore the weight of a crown.
You rose quickly, wiping your hands on your apron. “Your Majesty…” you murmured, bowing low. Your voice was formal, careful, despite the familiar warmth that wanted to slip through. You kept your gaze low out of respect, but your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your apron.
He gave a tired but amused sigh as he knelt beside you, brushing a loose petal off his knee as he settled into the dirt.
“How many times must I ask you, just call me by my name?” He spoke softly, his tone laced with fond exasperation. A crooked smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and his mismatched eyes sparkled as he met your gaze.
Without waiting for protest, he reached for a trowel and began helping you press bulbs into the warm, fragrant soil. His movements clumsy but earnest. It wasn’t the first time he’d come here during stolen moments, unannounced and unguarded. He had a habit of slipping away from royal duties to join the gardeners, the servants, anyone who reminded him of the world beyond ceremony.
“And once again, Your Majesty, you arrive alone. Am I to assume you’ve escaped Black Raisin’s watchful eye?” There was teasing in your tone, light as dew, and a knowing raise of your brow as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
At the mention of his personal guard, his face twisted into a sheepish grin.
“She’ll find me soon enough,” he muttered, dusting dirt from his fingers. “I am a dreadful king, I know. I just needed a moment to breathe. With all the preparations… there’s barely time to think.” His shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the tension of duty momentarily slipping from his frame.
You paused, watching the way his shoulders moved as he returned to planting. His voice had quieted.
“I won’t complain,” he said after a beat. “This is my duty, after all. It’s just… sometimes I miss being close to my people. The way I used to be.” His voice was quieter now, almost reverent. He turned the trowel slowly in his hand, as if trying to remember what it was like to be ordinary.
You didn’t answer right away. It would have been easy to say I understand, but it would not have been true. Instead, you let the silence hold his words, gave them the space to settle into the soil like the lilies you both tended.
After a few moments, you spoke, brushing a bit of soil from your thumb
“Preparations… Is it for the ball everyone’s been whispering about?” Your tone was cautious, uncertain if you were allowed to ask such things, but curiosity glinted behind your words.
His expression lit up, the weariness in his face replaced by a flicker of boyish excitement.
“You guessed right. The other four kingdoms have been invited. It’s been years since I’ve seen some of them. Old friends, faces from a different time.” He leaned back on his heels slightly, hands still buried in the soil, his smile tinged with nostalgia.
You raised an eyebrow. “And it’s to be a masquerade, Your Majesty?”
You tilted your head slightly, intrigued despite yourself.
He nodded, fingers gently patting the earth around a bulb. “Yes,” he said, smiling. “It seemed the best option among many proposals. But the masquerade felt… right.”
You smirked, teasing, and glanced sideways at him. “So if you fail to recognize your old friends behind their masks, Your Majesty, you’ll have an excuse?”
He blinked, visibly startled, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “O–Oh stars above, no! I’m sure I’ll know them just fine. Do you think… do you think they’d take it personally?” His voice pitched higher with genuine alarm as he twisted toward you, eyes wide with concern.
You laughed, unable to help yourself, and he relaxed, realizing it was only a jest. He let out a relieved breath and chuckled softly, shaking his head at himself.
For a time, you both worked in silence, side by side, planting bulb after bulb in neat rows. The sun climbed a little higher and the golden light filtered through the canopy above, and the scent of white lilies and blue primroses mingled sweetly in the air. The breeze swept through the grove. Birds sang overhead. And there was something sacred in the stillness of the moment, two souls, royal and humble, united in quiet labor.
After a long moment, his voice came again.
“Will you come?”
You blinked at him. After all, in the Vanilla Kingdom, it was a tradition, the royal balls were open to all, every soul within its borders. Nobles and common folk alike were invited, titles mattered less than hearts.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you said plainly, your gaze dropping to the primrose bulb resting in your palm. There was no trace of embarrassment in your voice, just quiet honesty, like stating a simple fact.
Your fingers turned the bulb gently, brushing off a bit of dirt as you watched the smooth blue layers nestled tight like secrets. “Never learned,” you added with a small shrug. “No one ever taught me, and I guess I never had a reason to learn.” You looked up then, meeting his eyes with calm steadiness. “But I don’t mind saying it. I’d rather be honest than pretend I know what I’m doing.”
He smiled gently, a warmth blooming behind his eyes. “No one is born knowing. Everyone learns somewhere. I could teach you, if you’d let me.” His tone was hopeful, earnest. One hand rested lightly against the ground, steadying himself as he leaned just a bit closer, inviting but never pressing.
You arched a brow. “With all respect, your Majesty, I imagine you have more urgent matters than tutoring your gardener?”
“Please, do not remind me..” he said, voice half-despair, half-laugh.
You smiled, then asked, more gently, “Was it difficult for you to learn?”
He was quiet a moment, his gaze falling to the bulb in his hand. His voice softened.
“I struggled at first… but I had help. A friend. Neither of us knew how, but we learned together. We stepped on each other’s toes and tripped more than we spun, but I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.”
His voice grew quieter as he spoke, reverence threading through each word. He turned the bulb slowly in his hand, eyes half-lidded with memory.
He paused.
“They’re distant now… but I cherish them still.”
You studied his expression for a moment. “They must’ve been beautiful moments,” you murmured, the words falling gently, carefully shaped.
“They were. Some of the few I carry with me always.”
He smiled faintly, but the edges of it were sad, the kind that hides longing beneath grace.
You opened your mouth to speak, perhaps to propose ’Perhaps, you could ask that mysterious person to a dance just once more again’, but before the words could form, a sharp voice cut through the grove.
“Your Majesty!”
Pure Vanilla froze. A shiver of recognition passed through him.
From the garden’s archway emerged Black Raisin, his closest guard and most loyal protector. Her skin was deep, dark as onyx, glowing faintly under the sun’s embrace. Her eyes were coal black, though her right eye shimmered unnaturally, a vivid, crimson cross etched into its center like a mark from some forgotten magic. Her long black hair was bound in a tight ponytail, and a flowing cloak rippled behind her as she strode forward. The glint of her armor flashed gold in the sun, though she wore it with the ease of second skin.
Despite her reputation for coldness, she moved with quiet grace. The black raven that always accompanied her fluttered behind, its broken wing making its flight crooked as it landed softly on her shoulder, the one opposite her missing arm.
“Your Majesty,” she said between steady breaths, her tone clipped but never breathless. “I’ve been searching the entire palace for you. You cannot disappear like this, there’s still work to be done!”
The king smiled awkwardly, caught mid-act. “I just needed a moment—”
You stood back, trying not to laugh, though the king looked very much like a child caught sneaking sweets. It was a stark contrast to the version of him you were used to, composed, gentle, always wearing that soft, knowing smile that seemed perfectly fitted to a crown. Seeing him like this, unguarded, almost boyish, was oddly endearing.
Black Raisin turned her stern gaze toward you, and the raven gave a caw of complaint.
“And you,” her voice remained calm but carried the weight of command. “You should not encourage His Majesty’s impulsive escapes.”
The humor drained from your face. “My apologies,” you murmured, bowing your head. “It won’t happen again..”
There was a silence as she eyed you both, before Pure Vanilla gently pressed a final bulb into your hand, dirt still clinging to his fingers. He stood slowly and brushed off his shirt, though it was already hopelessly wrinkled and earth-streaked.
“Your attire, Your Majesty…” Black Raisin noted flatly, one brow arched in stern disapproval.
“My apologies,” he said, brushing futilely at the earth-streaked fabric. “I’ll change. Let’s go.”
You watched as the two of them left the garden, her raven resettling on her shoulder. She was already lecturing him about schedules, royal decorum, and the audacity of white shirts in flower beds.
Pure Vanilla looked back only once, his mismatched eyes catching yours, the hint of his gentle smile playing at the corner of his lips.
You looked down at the bulb he’d left in your hand. A white lily, still warm from his palm.
And with that, the garden returned to stillness. But the echo of his presence lingered, tucked beneath the soil, blooming quietly beside your heart.
Now alone, you let out a soft sigh, your gaze lingering on the spot where the king had vanished. The quiet slowly returned, swallowing the echoes of voices, laughter, and now lingering memories.
Your eyes dropped to the basket at your feet, still filled with the last bulbs waiting to be planted. The work remained, silent, patient. You knelt again, knees pressing into the warm earth, and resumed your task, motion by motion, finger by finger. The day stretched ahead of you, long and sun-filled, but with your thoughts gently drifting back to the morning’s encounter, your hands found a steady rhythm.
The morning passed peacefully. Now and then, maids wandered through the back paths of the garden, baskets of linens or fruit tucked at their hips, whispering among themselves, pausing occasionally to nod politely in your direction. You didn’t slow your pace. Every now and then, you leaned in to shoo away a brightly colored beetle that had dared to nibble at the edge of a bellflower’s leaf.
“Not for you, little glutton,” you murmured, carefully relocating it to the base of an old oak tree nearby.
The sun climbed steadily across the sky, and by midday, the basket finally sat empty. You set your trowel aside and rose slowly to your feet, muscles giving a small protest after the morning’s effort. With a long, deliberate stretch, arms raised skyward and palms open to the light, you breathed in the garden’s rich air. Your shoulders gave a faint pop, and you exhaled in contentment as your arms dropped back to your sides.
Stepping back, you let your eyes wander over the flower beds. The bulbs hadn’t sprouted yet, but you already saw them, clearly, in your mind. The tall stems, the delicate petals, the soft spread of color. You smiled to yourself, hands resting at your hips, your apron smudged with dirt like a badge of your labor. A bead of sweat traced down your temple, and with a casual swipe of your forearm, sleeves still rolled, you brushed it away, leaving a faint smear of earth on your cheek. You didn’t notice. Such marks felt almost like part of the uniform by now.
Your gaze swept over the garden’s palette. Lilies and primroses dominated much of the beds, crisp white, deep blue. A pairing that suited the soft golden tones of the kingdom well. Their perfume, carried by a light breeze, filled the air with a scent both sweet and assertive. Not everyone appreciated it… but he did.
The king loved lilies. He’d requested them in every corner of the royal gardens, and he always paused to admire them, even if just for a heartbeat. As though their mere presence lightened the burden on his shoulders.
You let out another breath, this time laced with thought, and murmured under it,
“It’s starting to feel a bit repetitive… Maybe some new flowers would bring a breath of fresh air.”
You stood in still contemplation, eyes narrowed slightly as they scanned the beds. A breeze danced through the leaves and tugged gently at a few loose strands of your hair. Then, like a sprout breaking soil, an idea bloomed in your mind. Your expression brightened, and you clapped your hands together with sudden cheer.
“A trip to the gardener is in order!” you announced, your voice a little louder than you intended.
You meant the florist in the heart of town, the one who had provided you with every seedling and bulb you’d ever planted for the king. A young man with leaf-green hair that curled like new growth in spring, his presence as vivid and warm as his wares. There was something quietly mesmerizing about him, and you couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement at the thought that he might have something new this time. Something bold. Something different.
But before your thoughts could carry you further, a figure passed behind the hedges.
A maid.
She turned her head at the sound of your voice and shot you a sideways glance, brows raised in silent judgment, as though wondering if you’d finally started losing your mind. She said nothing, of course, but her expression said plenty.
Your smile faltered.
You quickly averted your eyes, clearing your throat with a dry, awkward cough. A wave of heat surged to your cheeks, as though the midday sun had focused all its warmth directly on your face. You turned your back swiftly, pretending nothing had happened, though your heart beat just a little faster in your chest.
You began brushing at your apron, your tunic, dusting off soil with a bit more force than necessary, more to dispel the embarrassment than the dirt. Grabbing your now-empty basket, you tucked it under one arm.
Your steps picked up speed as you made your way toward the entrance of the castle, your pace quick, almost hurried, like you could outrun the blush still burning your skin.
At the grand gate leading out, two guards stood watch, stoic in their polished armor, unmoving save for the subtle shifts of breath and watchful eyes. You lowered your gaze slightly as you approached, the words still tangled somewhere between embarrassment and urgency.
The guards exchanged a silent glance, one of those fleeting looks that carry more weight than any spoken word. It wasn’t suspicion, nor was it defiance, just the quiet understanding shared by those who’ve seen too much and spoken too little. One of them gave the faintest nod, almost imperceptible, but it was enough.
Without a word, they stepped aside. The rusted hinges of the gate groaned faintly as it swung open, revealing the path beyond, uncertain, dimly lit, but undeniably open.
You hesitated, just for a heartbeat. The moment felt heavier than it should’ve. Then, as your feet crossed the threshold, a soft word of thanks rose unbidden from your lips. It wasn’t loud, barely above a murmur, the kind of tone spoken when you're unsure if gratitude will be welcomed or ignored. But even in its quietness, it carried intention.
The guards didn’t respond, not with words. One shifted slightly, a subtle gesture, as if acknowledging what had been said. The other simply kept watching, eyes calm, distant, but not unkind.
Whatever had passed between you, it didn’t need explaining.
You set off from the castle, the basket once brimming with lilies and primroses now empty and slung at your side. The path to town was short, winding through shaded groves and past manicured hedges. Within moments, the hush of the castle grounds gave way to the softer, livelier hum of village life.
As you stepped onto the cobbled street, the light crunch of gravel beneath your shoes transitioned into the familiar click of worn stones. Children darted between market stalls, their laughter like birdsong, one little boy darted across your path, then, in playful fear, dove behind your skirt, peeking out with wide eyes until his friend caught up, dragging him away with sibling like-teasing. His mother lightly scolded him, apologizing in hurried whispers, while you offered a gentle smile and waved it off.
The further along you walked, the wider the street became, flanked by storefronts buzzing with merchants calling out wares, fresh bread, colorful silks, vibrant spices. There was a clamour of haggling as customers and vendors bargained. Somewhere ahead, a musician played a fiddle, adding a jaunty soundtrack to the day. Another corner hosted a baker whose tray of sugar-dusted pastries caught sunlight in a dazzling display.
The town was alive.
Children’s laughter rang out like silver bells, echoing through narrow alleys and over sunlit rooftops. Street vendors called out cheerfully, their voices harmonizing with the clatter of hooves and the chatter of friends reunited. There were melodies in the marketplace too, flute notes carried lazily on the breeze, someone humming while dusting fruit with cloths, bakeries filling the air with the warmth of cinnamon and sugar. The Vanilla Kingdom was living up to its name, sweet, soft, peaceful.
It was what your eyes saw but not what your ears heard.
Beneath the joy, beneath the market’s bright and bustling rhythm, there stirred a quieter music, the whispers. Fine as thread and bitter as ash, they wove themselves through laughter and barter like mold blooming in forgotten corners. They did not rise, did not clamor, yet they spread, patient, deliberate, certain. No one could say where they began, which tongue first shaped them, or whose shadow cast them into the world. But they moved, as all living things do. They never needed to be loud to be heard, somehow, they always found their way to you, quiet as breath, familiar as a thought you never meant to think.
Passing by a booth draped in silk, a woman whispered to another behind her fan, her mouth barely moving, as if her words floated into the air, brushing the ears of every passerby, each one now a participant in this first act, whether they wished it or not.
“They say Queen Hollyberry hasn’t laid eyes on her son in weeks,” murmured the first woman, her voice barely more than a breath, her fan stirring the air just enough to lift the wisps of hair at her temple.
“The poor child,” the second replied softly. “Raised by nurses, spoken to by servants... They say she drinks through the night and sleeps through the day.”
The third woman offered no words, only a graceful dip of her head. Her fan masked her mouth, but not her eyes, which glinted with amusement, leaving no doubt about the smile hidden behind the silk.
You simply moved along.
By the weaver’s stall, tucked beneath a striped canopy, two nobles stood shoulder to shoulder, half-hidden behind towering rolls of imported silk that shimmered in the noon light. Their coats, dusty from the road, still bore the crest of distant provinces, though their voices remained low and close.
“The Dark Cacao Kingdom has been far too quiet lately,” murmured the taller of the two, fingers idly brushing a length of navy brocade.
“Quiet isn’t peace,” the other replied, his tone edged with unease. “Quiet means something’s being prepared.”
A merchant’s child laughed somewhere nearby, but neither man glanced away.
“The prince hasn’t made a public appearance in three months,” the first continued, lowering his voice further.
“I heard he disappeared.”
“Really? I heard they’re hiding it, burying it beneath layers of court protocol, something surely happened.”
A breeze fluttered the edges of the silk between them, momentarily drawing their eyes to the deep folds, dark, heavy, and veiled like secrets. One of them straightened his collar.
“Whatever the truth is,” he said, “someone’s going to profit from the silence. Or bleed because of it.”
And just like that, they moved on, blending back into the rhythm of the market, as if the weight of what they’d spoken hadn’t shifted the air around them.
By the butcher’s stall, where garlands of herbs hung above rows of glistening meat, two young apprentices lingered just out of sight. The scent of blood and rosemary clung to the air, and thick slabs of venison swung gently on their hooks, hiding them from passing shoppers.
“The delegation from the Faerie Courts arrives tomorrow,” whispered the older girl, her eyes flicking toward the main road.
“The Faerie Kingdom?” her friend echoed, frowning. “I thought they pulled out of all diplomacy.”
“They did. After their last king died, poisoned, some say. That’s why this is strange. The Courts don’t cross the veil without reason.”
There was a pause, broken only by the rhythmic thud of the butcher’s cleaver behind them.
“Then maybe they’re here because they want something,” the younger one ventured.
The older girl gave a slow nod, her voice barely a breath.
“Or because they’re owed something.”
The wind shifted, and one of the hanging carcasses creaked on its hook. Both girls fell silent, glancing toward the market square, where banners had already been changed to welcome the foreign guests, pale blue, embroidered with golden thread that shimmered like starlight. The kind of welcome that didn’t come without a cost.
They said nothing more. But neither of them looked away.
And then, a pause.
Not long, just enough for the wind to stir the edge of a silk banner, for a single dry leaf to skip across the stones. But in that breath of silence, the words already spoken seemed to rise and scatter like ash on the breeze.
As if peace had grown too still, too unnatural. As if, in the quiet, minds had begun to shape storms of their own.
“And the ball?” a voice said at last, low and sharp. “All the royals coming here? Honestly… it’s a mistake.”
“It’ll be a spectacle,” the other replied, her tone unreadable. “But you know what they say, spectacles invite masks.”
She turned, watching the sky darken behind the palace spires.
“And masks,” she added softly, “hide daggers.”
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled once. And the wind carried on, unbothered, but listening.
For a fleeting moment, something gentle stirred in you, not quite sorrow, not quite affection. Perhaps it was pity. You thought of your king, Pure Vanilla, and wondered, was this truly what he held so close to his heart?
A kingdom that scorned the very other realms he had cherished as his own, realms he had spoken of with warmth, with loyalty, with the quiet pride of one who had believed in unity.
Perhaps he already knew. The murmurs behind gilded doors, the quiet judgment in the eyes of his council, the rumors carried like wind through corridors, surely they had reached him at some point.
And if they hadn’t, then perhaps he had chosen not to listen. Or perhaps he simply no longer had the strength to hear such slander about the very people he held dearest.
You wondered then, if he had not been your king, if your loyalty had not been bound by history, by memory, by love, would you have stayed?
Would anyone?
To love a kingdom once, truly, and then to see it twist into something bitter and cold.
Something that no longer remembers the things it once stood for. Most would have walked away, but he hadn’t.
And neither had you. But perhaps, had it been you in his place, you would have.
You turned away from the noise, your hands tightening slightly on your basket's handle. Each murmured rumor slid past your ears like cold fingers against skin. People smiled as they said them. As if gossiping about other kingdoms, other rulers, other tragedies, kept them safe from their own. A shield of shadows behind painted grins.
The markets gleamed with flowers and fruit, the buildings kissed by warm light, but beneath that gold was a rot that no sun could reach. A hunger in people’s words. A need to see cracks in someone else’s perfect castle, so they wouldn’t have to look too closely at their own.
You kept walking, pretending not to notice the weight pressing between each cheerful laugh. Pretending not to feel it.
At last, you came upon the flower shop you sought. Its wooden façade was drenched in life, pots of blossoms in pinks, purples, whites perched on shelves and window frames, vines curled theatrically along pillars, delicate petals dripped with dew from a recent watering. The arrangement gleamed, and in the sunlight, the beauty felt ceremonial, like a promise of new life.
Inside, the chime of a small bell welcomed you. You crossed the threshold into a world bathed in golden light. Tall glass panes arched overhead, catching every sunbeam and illuminating rows of plants arranged in tiers, lush ferns here, vivid begonias there, rare orchids in shaded alcoves. Benches carved from polished wood invited short rest stops, and at the back, a low bench cradled recently delivered crates, mystery blooms not yet unpacked.
The scent of fresh earth, flower, and subtle spice filled the air, a scent more invigorating than any perfume.
And there, behind the counter, stood one of your dearest friends, Herb.
He raised a flowering plant, gently placing it on the wooden counter in front of him. The soil from the pot scattered like dark stardust, but his crisp white apron remained immaculately clean. Even his brown sweater, warm-hued and soft, showed no trace of dirt. His skin was warm and lightly tanned, a gentle contrast to his striking green hair, which curled in soft leaf-like strands, a living echo of his craft and heritage. His brown eyes lit when he saw you, and even in the density of his shop’s foliage, you knew he belonged here as much as the plants did.
He looked up, smiled widely, and greeted you,
“Oh, my dearest costumer, [Name], what a delight to see you this beautiful afternoon! Come in, come in,” he said, voice soft yet enthusiastic, brushing a speck of dust off the counter and automatically fluffing his shirt collar beneath his sweater. “It’s a perfect day for flowers, isn’t it?”
You returned the smile, removing gloves to wipe your hands on your apron and brushing off the last traces of soil. “Hello, Herb. And yes, it is. The gardens at the castle look spectacular today.”
He leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the counter. “Oh, I know they do, you’re the one taking care of it after all. Thank you, by the way, for all your hard work planting those bulbs. Everyone’s talking about how vibrant the beds are becoming.”
You nodded, a soft smile still playing on your lips from the moment your gaze meet his. “Thank you, but the credit’s just as much yours. You’re the one who provides me with all the bulbs and seeds.”
He gave a small cough, as though trying to appear modest, but the proud curve of his smile, and the faint blush warming his cheeks, betrayed him. “Oh, please…”
You only rolled your eyes, amused by his failed attempt at modesty, before continuing,
“But I was hoping for something more, actually. That’s the real reason I came today.”
Herb’s interest piqued. “Do tell.”
You stepped toward a shelf stocked with short-stemmed plants that glowed violet in the sunlight.
“Well, I wanted to see what else we might add to the garden’s design. It’s been much lilies and primrose, beautiful, but perhaps a bit repetitive now..”
Herb raised one brow, thoughtful. “You’d be surprised how much impact one new bloom can make. Do you have anything in mind?” He picked up a small pot of pale green blossoms, turning the pot so the leaves caught light.
You nodded. “I’d like recommendations, flowers that’ll thrive, yes, but also those that bring variety to the garden. Lilies and primroses are beautiful, but I want something fresh— Something surprising!”
Then, in a quiet murmur, with your brows furrowed, you muttered to yourself, “And honestly, if His Majesty makes me keep planting nothing but lilies and primroses, I’m going to lose my mind…”
He nodded approvingly. “That makes sense. You’re the eyes of the garden, you know what suits its spirit.” He reached over to a pot filled with cream petals bordered in violet. “These are vanilla blossoms, sweet and understated. They grow in nearly every corner of the realm, but on my last visit to the castle, when I delivered the bulbs, I saw very few. Adding them could bring a nice balance?”
He smiled, stepping around the counter and motioning to a low display. “We also have these, not yet labelled,” he explained, “blossoms from the Miralune vine. They’re subtle in hue but strong in fragrance, harmonizing beautifully with white and blue flowers. And then there’s a shipment due right after the ball, from a merchant in the port of the Great Bays and a florist in Evergreen Springs. These include rare twilight-pollinated species, flowers that only open under specific phases of the moon. One variety even shifts color slightly between dusk and dawn, depending on the ambient temperature and light.”
Your eyebrows lifted, interest deepening at the mention of a flower you hadn’t yet laid hands on.
“And you’re expecting those after the ball?” you confirmed.
Herb nodded, picking up a glass jar full of seeds and gently examining them. “Won’t be long. Of course, they’ll be pricier, import charges and rarity. But just imagine them dispersed between the lilies… patterns shimmering under moonlight. With you tending them, each dawn and dusk could feel like a quiet wonder.”
He paused mid-sentence, finally realizing what he had just said, and cleared his throat softly, embarrassed by his enthusiasm. “My apologies, I’m just… excited.”
You chuckled. “Better excited than indifferent.”
He grinned simply at your words, a silent approval, then scratched his chin thoughtfully. “So, will you be attending the ball?”
You exhaled, the subject trailing you no matter where your feet took you. “Everyone seems to talk about the ball. You’re the second person to ask me, twice now.”
His face lit up, amused. “Twice, is it? Well, that makes me one of the crowd.” Then he added, “After all, it’s not every day the great realms gather for a single event, especially a ball. It’s no wonder people are talking.” At last, he said gently, but just loud enough for it to reach your ears, with a hint of amusement, “And you still haven’t answered me…”
You let out a soft laugh, noticing that you hadn’t quite managed to steer the conversation away. “I… honestly don’t think so. My duties feel grounded, gardener, not guest.”
Herb’s gaze turned thoughtful. “I understand. I won’t be going either. Too much work before then, flowers to wrangle, bouquets to craft… And I expect florists from other realms to visit. I want the chance to meet them, swap seeds, see rare hybrids. I can’t miss the opportunity.”
Then, a small silence settled between you.
Herb pushed his sleeves up, clasping his hands behind his back. “So, about the flowers… consider them set aside, just for you. I’ll have labels ready, care instructions, the works.”
You nodded, mulling it over. “Thank you as always, Herb. I’d love to come back when they arrive.”
As you turned to leave, he reached behind the counter and held out a small pot, its ceramic surface warm from the sunlight filtering through the shop windows.
“Here,” he said, his voice calm and even, but with a hint of something softer beneath. “A sample for you. Not a customer gift—just… a gift between friends. Please.”
You paused, surprised, and took the pot carefully with both hands. It was surprisingly light, small enough to fit in your palm, the soil still faintly damp from a recent watering. The tiny sprout barely peeked above the surface, delicate and green.
“May I ask what kind of flower it is?”
He gave a subtle smile, his gaze drifting toward the display near the window, where rows of carefully tended blossoms basked in the light. “My apologies, but no. You’ll have to wait for it to bloom to find out.”
You tilted your head, frowning just a little, not from frustration but curiosity. “Really?..”
“Really,” he replied with a quiet laugh, his tone tinged with something like affection. “Just take care of it, give it some light and water, and hope it blooms this season. But I have a feeling it’s in good hands.”
Your expression softened, the corners of your lips lifting as warmth bloomed in your chest. You looked down at the little pot again, then back at him.
“I promise.”
His eyes held yours for a moment, steady, warm, and something you couldn’t name, yet. And then he smiled, the kind that wasn’t just polite, but personal. A flicker of gratitude, maybe even something more, passed through his gaze.
“Come back anytime,” he said, a little quieter now. “Especially later this week.”
As the wooden door of the flower shop creaked closed behind you, the little bell above gave one final chime, a farewell just as gentle and warm as the welcome it had given when you entered. The soft sound lingered in the air a heartbeat longer than it should have, as though the shop itself hesitated to let you go.
You stepped once more into the streets of the city. The light had changed ever so slightly, the sun tilting westward in the sky, and with it came the full bloom of afternoon life in the Vanilla Kingdom.
Children laughed in the alleyways, chasing each other with sticks for swords and spinning skirts that caught the light like flower petals. Vendors lifted their voices in cheerful competition, hawking fruits, ribbons, silks, books, and all manner of things. A cart rolled past, its wheels rattling rhythmically over the cobblestones, pulled by a horse with daisies braided into its harness.
And yet, somehow, all of it sounded far away.
Your thoughts were no longer with the city, nor the passing time of day. The words of Herb still echoed faintly in your mind, about the upcoming ball, the new arrivals from the other kingdoms, the possibility of exotic flora after the festivities. But even that had begun to dissolve, becoming part of the gentle blur surrounding you.
Your eyes had fallen to the cobbled street. Not out of sadness, but a strange quiet curiosity tinged with boredom. You observed the movement of the people without truly seeing them, the way their shoes clicked, shuffled, or glided across the stone. Some were heavy boots, coated in dust. Others were soft slippers worn by children. Sandals laced in ribbons. Leather worn thin by time. Each footstep told a life, and yet they all dissolved into the same restless rhythm, a tide of strangers flowing past, carrying stories you would never hear.
And then…
A flicker of movement, out of step, apart from the rhythm that ruled the rest.
At first, you dismissed it as nothing more than a trick of the light, a fleeting shimmer, like sunlight catching on glass at the farthest edge of your vision. You told yourself it was nothing, just another ripple in the restless movement of the crowd.
And yet, it persisted. Slowly, deliberately, it pressed against the periphery of your sight until you could no longer pretend it wasn’t there. It cut through the dull tapestry of the marketplace, the weathered greys of stone, the dust-muted browns of worn leather, the faded cloth in colors that had long since surrendered to sun and time.
This was different.
Vibrant. Unnatural.
It was a piercing, iridescent blue, alive in a way the world around it was not. Not the tender, petal-soft blue of morning glories, nor the pale, weary hue of the kingdom’s banners fraying in the wind. It shimmered like the surface of deep water under a noon sun, too bright to belong here, too strange to ignore, as though it had been torn from a different world and set down, deliberately, in your path.
It wasn’t just a blue, it was deeper, more cutting, a hue so vif it seemed to hum in the air. A luminous cobalt, blazing with such intensity it almost pricked at the eyes. Here, in the midst of the city’s soft palette of beige façades and weathered terracotta roofs, it felt like an intruder, something foreign, elusive, and yet utterly captivating. It shimmered with an unnatural clarity as if the light itself recoiled from it, skirting its edges and leaving its contours etched in an unnatural clarity. This blue did not simply exist, it blazed, uncompromising and alive, the kind of color that could sear itself into memory, or bite, if you dared to stare too long.
You paused.
There, just beyond the border of the main road, where the city stone gave way to wild grasses and weathered stone, something shifted. The blue glinted again, disappearing into the tall green blades as if beckoning.
Drawn by curiosity more than logic, your feet began to follow. Step by step, you veered off the main path, letting the hum of the market fall behind you. The voices dulled, the clamor faded. The stone street gave way to uneven ground, the texture shifting beneath your soles, dirt and pebbles, wild grass brushing against your legs.
The blue shimmered once again, ahead of you now, slipping between tall grasses and leaning stones.
And then, you saw it in full.
A serpent.
Sleek and long, its body moved like silk pulled through water, each scale catching the sun in sharp angles. It wasn’t just the color that stunned, it was the pattern. Black markings spread across the vivid blue in strange, symmetrical shapes, some of which eerily resembled... eyes. Dozens of them. Watching, or perhaps just pretending to. The tip of its tail disappeared between two rocks, the creature clearly in motion, trying to retreat, to vanish before it could be seen.
With practiced calm, your hand reached forward. Not stiff, not aggressive, an ease learned from years of tending creatures and plants alike. It noticed you, and jerked in alarm, trying to slither away. But before it could vanish into the underbrush, your fingers gently curled around its midsection, firm but delicate, holding just tightly enough.
It shifted in your grasp, a subtle coil of muscle rippling beneath the smooth, cool scales. Its head pivoted, unblinking eyes fixing on you.
The serpent writhed, a flicker of resistance running through its length, but you drew it closer, tilting it toward the light to study it.
“So it’s not just my eyes playing tricks,” you murmured, the words meant as much for yourself as for the creature. “You really are this blue… What an odd little thing.”
It hissed, a thin, measured sound. Not anger, but a warning, clear enough that a second was unnecessary.
You let a faint smile curl your lips. “You’re not the first snake I’ve held, you know. But the others in the garden weren’t nearly as dramatic…”
It flicked its tongue, a forked ribbon of the same uncanny blue, tinged at the edges with a deeper, bruised indigo. You lifted it closer to your face, tracing the strange patterns along its length with your eyes. Near the midpoint of its spine, the vivid blue bled into a black so absolute it seemed to drink the sunlight. Within that darkness, pale circular markings emerged, like unblinking eyes staring at nothing, and at everything.
Your voice fell into something softer, low and steady, almost melodic. “It’s alright, little one. I’m not going to hurt you.”
For a fleeting heartbeat, its muscles remained drawn tight, the cool, polished coils trembling slightly beneath your fingers, each movement a study in restrained power. Then, as if by some silent understanding that defied reason, the serpent gradually relaxed. Perhaps it was the gentle cadence of your voice, or the unwavering calm in the way you held it, that coaxed this shift. Or maybe, in that suspended moment, it perceived something more intangible, a captivating innocence, untested and unmarked, a blank canvas yet untouched by the world’s shadows. And perhaps it considered, with an almost imperceptible curiosity, the tantalizing possibility of leaving its own subtle imprint upon that purity, a whisper of color against a surface still fresh and bright.
The writhing stilled. Its long body settled against your palms, no longer fighting, though its slender, forked tongue kept tasting the space between you.
As you peered closer, a note of wonder crept into your voice. “Such strange scales… they catch the light so strangely.. You’re probably not from around here. Maybe your owner is one of those fancy visitors coming for the ball from another kingdom, and you got lost along the way.”
Then, your voice softened, shifting into that teasingly sympathetic tone people reserve for helpless little creatures, cooing almost instinctively, “Aw, poor thing…”
Though its face betrayed no emotion, not that it could, really. But you could almost sense a weary resignation emanating from its stillness. As if it silently questioned why it hadn’t kept writhing, just to avoid hearing such naïve pity.
The sun gleamed off its back as you turned your wrist, watching it slither slowly across your palm. A gentle wind stirred the tall grasses behind you, and for a moment, you stood there with it, the two of you wrapped in a silence both eerie and oddly intimate.
“It would be foolish to leave you here,” you said quietly, your voice low and steady. “Someone might panic and hurt you… or worse, a careless child might try to catch you, only to learn just how sharp your fangs really are.”
A soft smile tugged at your lips as you watched the creature resting, half-coiled around your fingers, delicate yet tense.
“But somehow,” you added with a hint of teasing, “I have a feeling you’d be the one doing the hurting first, wouldn’t you?”
The snake’s muscles twitched briefly, a subtle ripple of tension passing through its sleek body. Then, almost playfully, it gave a small, deliberate tightening, a silent, amused agreement with your words, before slowly relaxing again, settling comfortably in your hands.
Carefully, you shifted it closer to your basket, your hands gentle but sure, cradling the strange little being with a mix of awe and tenderness.
“I should take you back to the castle. Release you in the gardens where it’s quiet. Safer.”
At the mention of the castle, something strange happened. The snake suddenly stilled, as if understanding the word, or recognizing it. Its body slackened, no longer struggling. Its tongue flicked out once, then stilled. Its gaze locked with yours.
You blinked, slightly unnerved. “Oh? Did that interest you?”
The corners of your lips curled into a faint, amused smirk. “Well. Seems you understand more than I thought.”
With slow, respectful movements, you lowered the serpent into your basket. Remarkably, it didn’t resist. Instead, it slithered into the coiled linens as though guided, finding a warm corner and nestling in without fuss into the woven shadows inside.
Your brows rose slightly, but you made no comment about that.
“Well then. That’s settled. We'll get you somewhere a bit less... busy.”
Shouldering carefully your basket half-shut once more, you stepped out from the wild grasses and rejoined the main road, the city’s sounds slowly reweaving around you. You walked at a steady pace now, one eye occasionally glancing toward the basket at your side, where the shimmering blue scales caught bits of sunlight between the gaps.
Your thoughts drifted for once more to the upcoming ball, which had now been brought up by not one but two people. And now, this odd little guest in your basket. You glanced down once again, curious.
Inside, the snake sat curled quietly. But its eyes, those sharp, almost glassy pupils, were still watching you.
You laughed, just under your breath, and murmured, half-joking. “Perhaps I’ll take you as my partner to the ball. At least then I won’t have to worry about stepping on anyone’s feet...”
A grin tugged at your lips. The idea was absurd, but oddly endearing. The image of waltzing through the marbled halls with a serpent coiled gracefully around your arm made you chuckle.
You laughed under your breath, a quick, light sound, lest passersby think you were mad for laughing at your own basket. You caught yourself, checking to see if any passerby had noticed. But even as your attention shifted, you felt the faintest shift in the basket. Not panic. Not resistance.
Interest.
A strange and gentle chill ran down your spine. Not from fear, but from the sense that something, someone, was listening.
You didn’t speak again, not aloud, but a nagging sense of unease lingered, subtle and unnameable, whispering that something was definitely off, even if you couldn’t put your finger on exactly what.
But as you walked the last stretch toward the castle gates, past city walls blooming with ivy and flags waving softly in the breeze, you could feel the gaze of your strange new companion never leaving you.
And for the first time all day, the thought of the upcoming event didn’t fill you with dread.
Only curiosity.
———
Would you rather :
A/N : Either way, the choice you make will have consequences in the Chapter Two.
<3
“Go to the Ball,
or, visit your dearest florist.”
Else? Tell me! (in short, im lazy and have no others ideas.)
I was requested for this One shot to put Pure Vanilla, Herb, and our dear Shadow Milk cookie! There’s no direct love interest, so interpret each gesture however you want. I could add new love interest in the chapter two, just tell me who!!
I was supposed to do a summary for more context on this world, but once more I got lazy. If anyone want more explaining I could do it in chapter two!
Im team Herb, he’s so cute.
Not related to the chapter, just talking :
MDRR MY BAD, I forget to post this chapter, like, five days ago?? And I just finished it, im tired asf so if it have any errors pls tell me. Je déteste devoir relire cinquante fois pour voir si y’a une erreur quelque part.😔 Et on m’a fait la remarque d’utiliser — et pas - pour couper mes mots, merci meuf 🫶 The more i read my story the more I hate it fr
I hardly go on tumblr now since I finally left this toxic community that is Crk. And this ShadowVanillz fan finally stopped to spam my ask box after I blocked a bunch of ShadowVanillz account, im finally free. (Please don’t do that, it’s just make me hate this ship even more).😚🫶🍊
Hopefully I will post chapter two one day (MAYBE). Honestly, if don’t post Chapter two after a lot of time and you still have the story in mind, you can dm me and I’ll send you at least what little part I made for Chapter two.
Small doodle with one finger bc i wanted to
