Just beyond the outer influence of Bera, where cultivated fields begin to soften into open countryside, lies a wide, gently sloping meadow once known simply as Tulips. The name came from King Locke’s wife and daughter, who discovered a scatter of wild blossoms during their travels across Llithe. Rather than leave them to the wind, they began gathering seeds and bulbs from every corner of the realm, replanting them in one carefully chosen place.

What began as a small patch of flowers became a living collection.

It was said that no two seasons in Tulips ever looked the same. Spring brought pale violets and soft whites. Summer erupted in golds and deep reds. Autumn held resilient blooms of amber and purple. Even in colder months, hardy varieties endured, their color muted but persistent.

The garden was not organized in strict rows. It followed a natural rhythm. Paths curved gently between beds. Small stone markers indicated where certain flowers originated, some from the Highlands, others from near Nexus Bay, some from forest clearings close to the Wisp. Each bloom carried a story.

Locke’s wife and daughter tended the land personally. They knelt in soil. They pruned and replanted. They catalogued which flowers thrived together and which required distance. Tulips became their quiet refuge from court and crown, a place where sovereignty meant nurturing rather than ruling.

Visitors were occasionally allowed within its bounds, though always with respect. The field became known not for grandeur, but for serenity. The air carried layered fragrance. Bees moved lazily from bloom to bloom. The wind would ripple through the flowers in waves of color, like fabric stirred by unseen hands.

Then came Kingdom Come.

During the war, attention shifted elsewhere. Protection faltered. Foot traffic crossed paths meant only for quiet reflection. Some sections were trampled. Others simply withered without the hands that once cared for them.

When the Berathian line fell and Bera changed, Tulips was left untended.

Over time, cultivated beds blurred back into common grassland. The deliberate variety gave way to uniform green. A few stubborn wildflowers still appear each season, faint echoes of what once flourished. Older citizens of Bera claim that on certain mornings, if the light hits the field just right, one can almost see the outlines of former pathways.

Today, Tulips remains a grassy expanse waiting.

Waiting for someone to remember the names of the flowers that once grew there. Waiting for hands willing to kneel again in its soil. Waiting to decide whether it will be restored, repurposed, or forgotten entirely.