Dassa Moonwhisper had one meeting to win a place among the court's bards, and she did not know a single song they wanted to hear. Her family's friend had arranged it. The high court wizard would judge her that afternoon, inside the castle draped in glowing green blossoms. But no one had told her the rules. Ballads? Dance tunes? Grand hymns for kings? Choose wrong, and she wasted her only chance. She walked the swamp path to calm her nerves. Her small frog-like companion hopped beside her boots, round and springy, its bright eyes catching every ripple in the water. Dassa stopped beside a cluster of tall purple stalks. Green vines twisted up them. Neon blossoms crowned each one, humming faintly, as if waiting. "I don't know what they want," she told the little creature. It blinked and hopped in a slow circle. So she stopped guessing. She sat, pulled her lute across her knees, and played the song she loved best. Not a court tune. Her own. Her aura brightened as she sang, a soft glow spreading from her chest to her white hair. The blossoms answered. They pulsed with each note. Their stems stretched taller. New buds cracked open along the vines, glowing brighter with every verse. By the last line, the whole cluster leaned toward her, humming her melody back. "You've woken half the marsh." Dassa turned fast. A man stood on the path, leaning on a gnarled wood staff. A single green flower glowed near its top. His white robes carried the same neon green as the castle. Dark hair and a long beard framed blue eyes that twinkled at her. She knew the staff, the robes, the flower. This was the court wizard, and he had come early. Her face went hot. "I'm sorry. I was only practicing. I didn't know what you'd want, so I—" "So you played what was true." Cornelius Brightwood stepped closer. He touched one glowing bloom, and it curled around his finger. "Do you know how many bards perform for me? They study our old anthems. They copy the last winner. Their flowers never move." He gestured at her humming stalks. "Yours do." Dassa gripped her lute. "Then I chose right?" "You chose yourself. That is what the court has been missing." He smiled, but his eyes sharpened. "I'll bring you before the high court in three days. Play exactly that." He turned to go, then paused. "Understand this. The court has never seen magic bloom from a song. Some will love it. Others will call it a threat. You won't only be judged. You'll be tested." He walked back toward the castle. Dassa sat among the glowing stalks, her heart loud. She had her answer at last. She also had a new problem. In three days she would stand before strangers who might crown her or fear her, and she had no idea which.

Three days. Dassa had her song. She did not have her look. She caught her reflection in a shop window and saw the truth. Patched skirt. Ale stains on the sleeves. Boots cracked at the toe. She sang for coins in a tavern, and she dressed like it. If she walked into the high court like this, the courtiers would judge her before she touched a string. Cornelius had warned her some already feared her magic. She would not hand them a reason to laugh, too. She counted her tavern earnings in her palm. Not much. Enough, maybe, for one good dress. She had heard of only one shop that sewed for royals. The seamstress's shop stole her breath. Rich fabrics draped every wall. Gold lanterns hung from carved beams. Bolts of silk stacked shoulder-high on an ornate table, threaded with scissors and colored spools. Dassa suddenly felt smaller in her worn clothes. A woman stepped from behind the table. Braided black hair fell over one shoulder. Gold beads caught the lantern light along her flowing dress. She looked Dassa up and down, then smiled like she had found a secret. "You," she said, "are the one who wakes flowers with a song. The whole town talks." She circled Dassa slowly. "I am Asha Tanvi. I sew for kings and their dull daughters. And you are far more interesting than any of them." Dassa opened her hand. Coins glinted. "This is everything I have. I know it isn't enough for your work. But I perform for the high court in three days, and I can't go like this." Asha waved the coins away. "Keep them." She tilted her head. "I'll make you the finest bard the court has ever seen. On one condition." Dassa braced herself. "What condition?" "That we're friends." Asha winked. "I'm surrounded by stiff royals all day. I want someone who makes plants dance." Dassa laughed, and the knot in her chest loosened. "Friends, then." Asha pulled her deeper into the shop. "Now. Colors." She held silks against Dassa's skin. Purple, deep and glowing. Green like new vines. Gold to thread between. "The colors of your flowers," Asha said. "Let them see the magic before you play a note." She worked fast. She pinned and cut and stitched while Dassa turned. By the second day, a gown rose on the dress form near the window. A tight bodice ran with gold swirls. The skirt fell in panels of purple, blue, and green, laced with vines of thread. A pale gem sat at the collar. Dassa slipped it on. She stood taller at once. In the mirror she did not see a barmaid. She saw someone the court could not wave off. "Now they'll let you play," Asha said. Then her smile faded a little. "But letting you play and welcoming your magic are two different things. Some of them are afraid, Dassa. A pretty dress won't change that."

The third day came. Dassa wore Asha's gown and climbed the road to the castle. Vines wrapped its towers. Green blossoms glowed along the stone. She had never seen a place so beautiful. But her hands would not stop shaking, and the reason sat in her arms. Her lute. The swamp damp had cracked its neck. A thin split ran down the wood, and the strings pulled tight over it. One hard chord could snap them. Her whole chance rode on an instrument ready to break. A servant led her up a curved stone stair to the throne hall. Royals waited on high seats, still and cold. Dassa's throat closed. She looked for a friendly face and found only judges. Then she saw him near the wall. Cornelius Brightwood, the court wizard, leaned on his gnarled staff. A single green flower glowed at its top. He had come to her swamp days ago and told her the court needed her true music. He gave her one small nod now. That nod said: play. Dassa lifted the lute. If she plucked hard, the strings would go. So she closed her eyes and played soft. Just her fingers and her breath. She let the fear fall away and smiled into the first line of her song. Warmth spread through her chest. Her aura brightened until it lit the room. Under her hands, the crack in the lute sealed itself. The wood turned smooth and new, the strings firm and bright. She felt them hold. She played louder now, unafraid. Around the hall, potted plants stirred. Buds swelled and burst into bloom. Vines crept up the pillars. The royals leaned forward, mouths open. Dassa reached her closing line, the one about her mother she always fled. This time she sang it whole. Her voice did not break. Silence. Then a royal woman rose from her seat, pale. "How do you have magic?" she asked. "It drained from this land ages ago. There is none left here." Dassa lowered the lute. "I don't know," she said. "It has always been with me. Since before I can remember." Whispers ran through the seats. Some faces held wonder. Others pulled tight with fear. Cornelius stepped forward. His staff tapped the stone. "She speaks true," he said. "Her magic is real. It came from no spell." He faced the royals. "Whinix is dying. The magic bled out and never returned. If she plays here, protected, her gift could bring it back." The royal woman studied Dassa a long moment. "Living magic, walking into our hall," she said quietly. "We cannot decide this now." A royal man nodded. "We need time. Come back, bard. We will send word." Dassa bowed. Her lute was whole in her hands. She had sung her mother's line without flinching. But she walked out of Blossomkeep Castle with no answer, only a promise to wait.

The word came at last. A servant found Dassa at her tavern and told her the court had decided. She wore Asha's gown again and climbed the vine-draped castle. Green blossoms glowed along the stone. Her lute hung whole across her back. She had waited through long, quiet days for this. She hoped for a welcome. She braced for anything. Outside the throne hall, a man in a purple jacket stopped her. She had not met him before, but the way the guards stiffened told her his rank. This was the Queen's chancellor. He read every letter before the Queen saw it. He decided which faces reached her at all. His own face held a scowl. "Bard," he said. "You may not enter." Dassa's chest tightened. "The court sent for me." "The court is divided. I am not." His voice stayed flat. "Your magic is a danger. It draws eyes we do not want. Enemies. Fear. I will admit you only if you swear to bind it. No blooming. No glow. Play a plain court song and nothing more." Her aura flickered at her hands. The flowers were not a trick she could stop. "I can't hide it," she said. "It isn't a coat I take off." "Then you cannot serve here." He said it plainly, without softening. "Go home." Tears stung her eyes. She would not let them fall in front of him. Everything she had climbed toward stood on the far side of a door he would not open. She turned to leave. "Stop." The voice came from the hall. Clear. Young. A woman's. "Bring her to me." The chancellor's jaw went hard. "Your Majesty, the risk—" "You heard me, Ulric." He held still a moment. Then he stepped back and pulled the door wide. He walked Dassa in without another word. The Queen sat on a gold throne carved with lilies and vines. Red curls swept up under a crown. Her gown was white, edged in gold. Her green eyes were kind and did not blink. Dassa dropped into a bow. "You told me she came for our answer," the Queen said to the chancellor. Her words were short and even. "You did not tell me you meant to turn her at the gate. You presume too much." "I meant to protect you," Ulric said. "I decide what protects me." She looked back to Dassa. Her voice warmed. "Rise." Dassa rose, shaking. "Whinix is dying," the Queen said. "The magic left us long ago. You carry it still. I will not lock that away out of fear." She leaned forward. "We need your help, Dassa." Dassa's breath caught. The gate had closed. Now the throne itself had opened it. "Whatever you need," Dassa said, "I'll give it." The Queen nodded. Beside her, Ulric watched Dassa with a look that was not yet trust. She had won her way in. She had also made an enemy of the man who guarded the door.