Prologue:

The package was as unremarkable as unremarkable gets. No fancy ribbon, no flashy sticker—just a plain cardboard box that sat awkwardly by the flower shop’s back door like it was lost. It might as well have had “Please Ignore Me” scribbled on the side in permanent marker.

“Not another mystery box,” muttered the shopkeeper, tapping the edge of the box with the toe of their shoe. “Last time it was a batch of ‘cursed’ begonias. I’m still scrubbing the soot off the walls.”

A sigh later, curiosity won over caution—because, when does it not? The tape gave way with a satisfying rip, and they dug into the box with equal parts excitement and dread. What met their eyes was not soot, nor begonias. It was worse.

“A veil? Who delivers a veil to a flower shop? Am I supposed to marry a chrysanthemum now?!”

Holding up the strange item, they couldn’t help but feel unnerved. The fabric shimmered faintly in the afternoon sun, and crimson roses embroidered on the edges seemed alive, vibrant beyond reason. It whispered danger. It screamed trouble. Naturally, they tried it on.

“Well, this is dumb,” they said, catching sight of themselves in the antique mirror leaning against the shop wall. Their reflection blurred, rippling like water, and the mirror cracked slightly under the strain. “Oh, fantastic! Now the mirror hates me.”

Then the world went weird.

The shop dissolved in a haze of crimson light, the scent of roses overwhelming their senses. Their stomach flipped as they stumbled, now standing somewhere they absolutely weren’t two seconds ago.

“Okay. Okay, no panicking. Breathe. Panic later, after we’ve figured out why the flowers are whispering.”

Indeed, flowers were whispering. A single rosebush had come alive, its thorns curling elegantly. Its petals moved as it spoke. Yes, spoke.

“Welcome, chosen one,” purred the rosebush in a voice far too deep for comfort. “The veil has brought you to us, our savior.”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” they groaned. “Savior? Me? I can’t even keep my cactus alive, buddy. You’ve clearly got the wrong person.”

“You cannot resist destiny,” intoned the rosebush, radiating regal energy while rustling dramatically in the wind. “The veil has chosen you to wear its thorns and lead us.”

“I’m not wearing thorns! I wore it once, against my better judgment, and I swear, if it doesn’t come off, I’m suing!”

They tugged furiously at the veil, but to no avail. It stayed firmly in place, like it had decided it rather liked being attached.

“Oh, great,” they muttered, yanking at it with both hands. “I’ve been kidnapped by accessory with a superiority complex. Any chance this veil comes with a refund policy?”

“Do not fight your fate,” insisted the rosebush. “You are destined to be our Rose Queen!”

“Listen, I don’t know how you convinced this veil I’m queen material—probably bad Wi-Fi—but I assure you, it’s wrong.”

But arguing with enchanted florals was evidently futile. Within moments, they were surrounded by other talking roses—each one chattier than the last—all murmuring about “prophecies” and “destiny.” The situation escalated when a haughty-looking stranger strode into view, bowing dramatically.

“You have finally come,” they declared. “We have waited long for the Rose Queen.”

“Waited long? You probably just ordered this veil last Thursday from some shady shop online!”

The stranger looked affronted. “The veil is an ancient artifact, steeped in magic and history.”

“Sure it is,” came the reply, dripping in sarcasm. “And I bet it comes with free shipping, too.”

This was clearly going to be a long ordeal. Thrust into a bizarre realm of floral conspiracies and expectations that couldn’t be lower (given they were absolutely unqualified for the role), one thing was certain: if they were going to survive this, it was going to take wit, luck, and a good deal of sass.

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