In the waning days of autumn, when the contested borderlands between
Valdoria and Ravencrest ran red with the blood of sons and fathers, war came
as it always had, with neither mercy nor meaning. The valleys that once knew
the songs of shepherds now echoed with the clash of steel and the screams
of the dying. King Daemon of Valdoria had sought to reclaim what his
ancestors had lost a century past, those fertile crescent lands where rivers
met and crops grew abundant. King Thaddeus of Ravencrest would sooner
see them burn than surrender a single furrow.
It was in one such skirmish, hardly worthy of the histories yet devastating to
those who bled there, that Ravencrest's forces descended upon a Valdorian
company already wounded from battle. The men, fifteen in number,
surrendered with what dignity remained to the defeated. They were bound in
iron and dragged across the border to Ravencrest's formidable capital, where
the castle's dungeons had swallowed many and returned none.
When word reached the halls of Valdoria, King Daemon raged and plotted
vengeance with his generals. But it was his son, Prince Elian, who felt the
news like a blade to the heart. Among those captured were men who had
trained him in swordcraft, who had taught him what it meant to bear the
weight of a kingdom's future. To abandon them to Thaddeus's cruelty was
unthinkable.
On a night when the moon hid its face behind clouds thick as wool, Prince
Elian gathered four of his most trusted companions in the shadowed corner of
the armory. There stood Rowan, whose loyalty ran deeper than blood; Gareth,
who could track a sparrow through a storm; Willem, quiet and deadly with
blade or bow; and Theron, who possessed a mind sharp enough to cut
through any problem that steel could not solve. "We ride for Ravencrest,"
Elian said, his voice low and certain as stone. "We will not return without our
brothers, or we will not return at all."
The four men exchanged glances, and in their eyes burned the same fire that
consumed their prince. They knew the odds. They knew what failure meant.
Yet not one voice rose in protest.
They departed before dawn, cloaked and hooded, carrying neither banner nor
trumpet. They were ghosts moving through the countryside, taking the
shepherd's paths and the smuggler's roads. Three days of hard riding brought
them to the walls of Ravencrest's capital, a city of black stone and darker
reputation, where Thaddeus ruled from his fortress like a raven perched upon
a corpse.
They entered the city as merchants, their fine features hidden beneath dirt
and common cloth, their swords concealed beneath cloaks of rough-spun
wool. The castle loomed above the city like a great beast of stone, its towers
clawing at the sky. Through coin and careful words, they learned the layout of
the dungeons, the changing of the guards, the hidden passages that servants
used.
On the fourth night of their arrival, when the castle prepared for sleep, the five
men slipped past the outer walls. They moved like shadows through corridors
lit by torches that threw dancing demons upon the walls. Theron had
procured a map from a sympathetic servant, and they followed its lines
toward the dungeons where their brothers languished.
But fate, that cruel weaver of destinies, had other designs.
In a stone alcove beneath a spiraling stair, they paused to review their path
forward. Their voices, though hushed, carried in the hollow spaces of the
castle. Elian was pointing to where the dungeon entrance lay when a sound
froze them all: the scuff of a boot upon stone, the sharp intake of breath.
A serving girl stood at the corridor's mouth, her eyes wide as moons, a tray of
empty goblets trembling in her hands. For a heartbeat, the world hung
suspended. Then the tray clattered to the floor, crystal shattering like stars
falling, and she ran.
"Move!" Rowan's voice cut through the paralysis.
They ran, but the castle had already begun to wake. Bells rang out, harsh and
urgent. The corridors filled with the thunder of boots and the shouts of guards.
Steel sang from scabbards as Ravencrest's soldiers poured forth like ants
from a disturbed hill.
The five scattered, instinct driving them toward different paths, hoping to
divide their pursuers. Elian glimpsed Willem turning down one passage,
Theron and Gareth taking another. He ran with Rowan at his side, their boots
pounding against ancient stone, their breath burning in their lungs.
They rounded a corner and found themselves facing a wall of spears and
shields. Back they turned, only to hear more guards closing from behind.
Rowan met Elian's eyes, and in that glance passed a lifetime of brotherhood,
of loyalty, of love that transcended the bonds of blood.
"Go, my prince," Rowan said, and charged toward the wall of steel.
Elian heard the clash of swords, the wet sound of steel finding flesh, the cry
that ended in silence. He ran, tears blinding him, rage and grief warring in his
chest. Behind him came more cries, more sounds of battle cut short. Gareth's
voice, calling out a final defiance. Willem's last breath, expelled in a gasp.
Theron's sword, ringing once, twice, then falling quiet. All dead. All gone. And
Elian ran like a coward through the halls of his enemy's house.
He stumbled through a doorway, pulling it shut behind him, his hands shaking
as he threw the bolt. His breath came in ragged sobs as he pressed his back
against the wood. The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through a
tall window, illuminating fine tapestries and furniture carved from dark wood.
This was no servant's quarter.
The scent of lavender and rose petals hung in the air. Books lined one wall,
their leather spines gleaming. A bed draped in silks occupied the far corner,
and upon a table sat a looking glass framed in silver. A woman's chamber. A
lady of high birth, by all accounts.
Elian's hand went to his sword hilt as he heard the softest whisper of
movement behind him. He spun, and there she stood, emerging from the
shadows like a spirit of vengeance. She wore a nightgown of pale blue silk, her
dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, and in her hand gleamed a
slender dagger, poised to strike.
She moved like water, fluid and swift, the blade seeking his throat. But Elian
had been trained since boyhood in the art of war, and grief had sharpened his
reflexes to a razor's edge. He twisted aside, caught her wrist, and in one
smooth motion disarmed her, the dagger now in his own hand.
They stood frozen, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, her free hand
pressed against his chest, their faces mere inches apart. In the moonlight, he
saw her properly for the first time. Her eyes were the colors of storm clouds,
wide with fury and fear. Her face was a study in contradiction: delicate yet
fierce, beautiful yet marked by a strength that went bone-deep.
"I mean you no harm," Elian said, his voice low and urgent. He released her
wrist and stepped back, lowering the dagger. "I am Prince Elian of Valdoria. I
came to free my men from your father's dungeons. My companions are dead. I
seek only to escape with my life."
She studied him with those tempest eyes, her breath coming quick, her hand
still raised as if she might strike him with nothing but her will.
"You are a fool," she said at last, her voice soft as silk drawn across a blade.
"To come here. To think you could succeed."
"Perhaps," Elian replied. "But what manner of man would I be to abandon my
brothers to torture and death?"
Something shifted in her expression, a crack in the armor of her anger. She
lowered her hand slowly, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a
weight of sorrow he had not expected.
"I am Princess Elara," she said. "Daughter of King Thaddeus. And I know what
my father has done to your men." She moved to the window, her silhouette
framed by moonlight. "He is cruel beyond measure. They were wounded when
they were taken, yet still he keeps them in chains, still he delights in their
suffering. I have heard their screams from the dungeons. I have pleaded with
him to show mercy, and he has laughed at my weakness."
Elian felt his grip loosen on the dagger. "You... oppose your father's cruelty?"
She turned to face him, and in her eyes he saw a fire that matched his own. "I
despise it. I despise him for what he has become, what he has always been.
This war over land that neither kingdom truly needs, this endless cycle of
blood and vengeance. It sickens me."
In that moment, something passed between them, an understanding that
transcended the boundaries of their warring kingdoms. Here stood two souls
trapped by the violence of their fathers, yearning for something beyond the
endless conflict.
"Then help me," Elian said, stepping closer. "Help me free them."
Elara's breath caught. She looked at him, truly looked at him, seeing not an
enemy but a man willing to die for those he loved. And in that seeing, her
heart, which had been locked away like a bird in a cage, began to beat with a
rhythm she had never known.
"The Festival of the Autumn Moon begins in four days," she said, her words
coming faster now, as if she feared her courage might fail. "It lasts for three
days, and the castle will be filled with nobles and merchants from across the
realm. Security will be divided, attention scattered. On the second day, when
the revelry is at its height, we could...."
"We?" Elian interrupted softly.
"Yes," Elara said, and the word was a vow. "There are men within these walls
who share my disgust at my father's methods. Men of honor who serve
Ravencrest but not its king's madness. I can gather them. You will disguise
yourself as one of my royal guards. No one questions who stands at a
princess's side."
Elian shook his head in wonder. "Why would you do this? Risk everything for
strangers, for your enemy?"
Elara moved closer to him, close enough that he could see the silver flecks in
her grey eyes, close enough that he could smell the lavender in her hair.
"Because what is right matters more than crowns or kingdoms. Because I am
weary of being complicit in evil through my silence. And because..." She
hesitated, her hand rising to almost touch his face before falling away.
"Because when I look at you, I see something I thought existed only in the
songs of bards. Honor. Courage. A heart that loves more than it fears."
The words hung between them like a spell, and Elian felt something shift
within his chest, as if a door long locked had suddenly opened. This woman,
this enemy princess, had in mere moments shown him more understanding
than he had known in a lifetime at court.
"Then we are allies," he said quietly. "And I am in your debt, Princess Elara.
"Hide yourself," she said, stepping back as if needing distance to think clearly.
"Behind the wardrobe. If guards search this wing, I will turn them away.
Tomorrow, I will bring you the uniform of my guard. We have four days to
prepare, four days to plan. And Elian..." She spoke his name like a secret. "Do
not despair for your friends. Their sacrifice will not be in vain."
The days that followed were strange and dreamlike. Elian remained hidden in
Elara's chambers, and she brought him food, water, and information. But
more than that, she brought him her presence, and he found himself craving it
like a man dying of thirst craves water. They spoke of everything and nothing:
of books and philosophy, of childhood dreams and adult disappointments, of
what they hoped the world might one day become.
On the second day, as evening fell and the first decorations for the festival
began to appear throughout the castle, Elara sat beside him on the floor near
the window, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She had been
telling him about the men who would help them, loyal soldiers who despised
Thaddeus's cruelty, when her words trailed off into silence.
"What troubles you?" Elian asked.
"I was thinking," she said softly, "how strange it is that war brought you to me.
That your friends had to die for us to meet. It seems a terrible price for
something that feels like..." She turned to look at him. "Like fate."
Elian reached out and took her hand, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of
her wrist. "I would pay any price to have them back. But I cannot deny what I
feel when I am near you. It is as if I have been wandering in darkness all my
life, and you are the first light I have ever seen."
Her fingers tightened around his.
The Festival of the Autumn Moon arrived with all the splendor that Ravencrest
could muster. The castle blazed with thousands of candles, music floated
through the halls, and nobles in their finest silks danced beneath chandeliers
of crystal and gold. Elian, disguised in the black and silver of Elara's royal
guard, stood at her side as she moved through the celebrations, greeting lords
and ladies with practiced grace.
But beneath the pageantry, a different dance was unfolding. Elara introduced
him, with carefully chosen words, to the men who would aid them. A captain
of the guard named Aldric, whose brother had died in Thaddeus's dungeons. A
master of keys named Corvin, who had wept when he was ordered to chain
wounded men. Each man pledged himself to their cause with a subtle nod, a
meaningful glance.
The first day of the festival passed in a blur of preparation and secret
planning. When night fell and the revelers finally sought their beds, Elara led
Elian to a balcony overlooking the city, where the sounds of celebration had
faded to a distant murmur.
"Tomorrow night," she said, "we free your men. And then..." Her voice
faltered.
"And then what?" Elian asked, though he knew the question she could not
speak. What became of a prince and princess from warring kingdoms? What
future could they possibly share?
Instead of answering, Elara turned to him, her eyes bright with unshed tears
and something deeper, something that had been building between them like a
storm gathering strength. "I do not want to think of tomorrow," she whispered.
"Tonight, I want only this. Only you."
She kissed him then, and in that kiss was everything words could not contain:
the desperate urgency of borrowed time, the sweetness of impossible love,
the defiance of fate itself. Elian pulled her closer, his hands tangling in her
hair, and she melted against him as if they were two halves of a whole finally
united.
They moved from the balcony to her chambers, leaving a trail of armor and
silk, of weapons and propriety. The moonlight painted her skin in silver as he
traced the curve of her shoulder, the line of her throat. She gasped as his lips
found the hollow of her collarbone, her fingers digging into his back.
"Elian," she breathed his name like a prayer, and he answered with her own,
whispered against her skin like a vow.
They came together with a hunger that transcended mere desire, a joining of
souls as much as bodies. In the tangle of sheets and moonlight, they found a
peace neither had known, a moment of perfection carved from the chaos of
their warring worlds.
Afterward, as they lay entwined in the darkness, Elara rested her head upon
Elian's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "Whatever happens
tomorrow," she said softly, "know that I love you. I have loved you since the
moment you stood in my chamber and chose mercy over violence. I will love
you until my last breath leaves my body."
Elian pressed his lips to her forehead, his arms tightening around her. "And I
love you, Elara. You have given me hope when I thought all was lost. You have
shown me that even in the darkest kingdoms, light can still exist."
They slept little that night, each moment too precious to waste on dreams.
The second day of the festival dawned bright and cold. By midday, the castle
was once again alive with celebration. Nobles competed in archery contests,
children ran laughing through the gardens, and the great hall overflowed with
feasting and wine. It was perfect chaos, exactly as Elara had predicted.
As dusk approached, Elara gave Elian a subtle nod. It was time.
They moved through the castle with practiced ease, Elian in his guard's
uniform, Elara with her royal bearing commanding respect and diverting
suspicion. They met Aldric and Corvin in a shadowed corridor, along with six
other men whose faces were grim with purpose.
"The dungeon guards have been called to the eastern gate," Aldric reported
quietly. "A disturbance we arranged. You have perhaps twenty minutes before
they return."
Corvin produced a ring of iron keys. "These will open every cell. Free them
quickly and move toward the western postern gate. Horses wait beyond the
walls."
They descended into the bowels of the castle, where the stench of suffering
hung thick in the air. The dungeons were a maze of stone and shadow, lit by
torches that seemed to make the darkness deeper rather than drive it away.
They found the Valdorian prisoners in the deepest cells, fifteen men in various
states of injury and despair. When they saw Elian, disbelief gave way to joy,
and joy to desperate hope.
"My prince," one of them gasped. "You came for us."
"Always," Elian said, helping the man to his feet. "Now quickly, we must
move."
But even as Corvin's keys turned in the final lock, a shout echoed from above.
The alarm had been raised. The dungeon guards, returning sooner than
expected, came pouring down the stairs with weapons drawn.
Steel rang against steel in the narrow corridors. Aldric fell first, a spear
through his chest, his blood painting the ancient stones. Two more of Elara's
men died buying time for the prisoners to arm themselves with fallen
weapons. Corvin fought like a demon, his blade singing a song of vengeance,
before he too was cut down.
But the Valdorian prisoners, weak though they were, fought with the fury of
men who had tasted freedom and would not surrender it again. Slowly,
desperately, they pushed toward the stairs, leaving bodies in their wake.
Elian fought at the front, his sword moving with deadly precision, while Elara
stood with a fallen guard's blade in her hands, defending the rear. They
reached the upper levels, then the courtyard, then finally the western gate
where horses stamped and whinnied in the darkness beyond.
"Go!" Elian shouted to his men. "Ride for Valdoria! Do not stop, do not look
back!"
The prisoners fled into the night, some mounted, some running on foot, but all
of them free. Elian stood at the gate, watching them disappear into the
darkness, and felt a weight lift from his heart. They had done it. Against all
odds, they had succeeded.
But then he turned and saw Elara standing in the courtyard, her dress torn,
blood on her hands and face, and the weight returned tenfold. How could he
leave her? How could he ride away and leave her to face her father's wrath
alone?
"Elian, you must go," she called to him, her voice breaking. "Please, before it
is too late."
He walked back to her, slowly at first, then faster, until he was running. He
took her hands in his, heedless of the blood, heedless of the guards who were
even now regrouping in the castle behind them.
"Come with me," he said urgently. "Elara, come with me. We will ride to
Valdoria, we will end this war, we will build a future together. Please."
She looked at him with those storm-grey eyes, tears streaming down her face.
For a heartbeat, she hesitated, torn between duty and desire, between the life
she had known and the life she desperately wanted.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I will come with you."
They ran together, hand in hand, toward the western gate and the promise of
freedom beyond. But fate, that cruel weaver, had one final thread to cut.
Guards appeared from every direction, surrounding them, cutting off their
escape. They turned this way and that, but there was nowhere left to run. They
were trapped.
King Thaddeus emerged from the castle like a shadow given form, his face
twisted with rage and something darker: a father's sense of betrayal. He
looked upon Elara not with love but with disgust, as if she were something
foul he had discovered beneath a stone.
"My own daughter," he said, his voice like winter wind. "A traitor to her blood,
to her kingdom. You have shamed yourself beyond redemption."
"The only shame is yours, father," Elara replied, her voice steady despite the
fear in her eyes. "You have become a monster, and I will not stand silent while
you spread your poison."
Thaddeus struck her across the face, the sound echoing through the
courtyard. Elian lunged forward with a roar, but guards seized him, forcing
him to his knees. He struggled against them, but there were too many, their
grips like iron.
The king turned his attention to Elian, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "Prince
of Valdoria. You have cost me good men, freed my prisoners, and corrupted
my daughter. For this, you will die. But not quickly. No, first you will know
what it means to suffer as those you freed have suffered."
"Do what you will to me," Elian said through gritted teeth. "But let Elara go.
She acted out of mercy, out of a nobility you have never known. Punish me,
but spare her."
Thaddeus laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Spare her? She chose her
fate when she chose you. But she will live to see yours." He gestured to his
guards. "Take him to the dungeons. Let him taste the hospitality I showed his
countrymen. In three days' time, when the festival ends, we will have a final
celebration. A beheading in the square."
They dragged Elian away, and the last thing he saw was Elara's face, pale and
streaked with tears, as guards held her back from following. Their eyes met
across the distance, and in that look was everything they had shared,
everything they would never have.
The days that followed were agony. Elian endured tortures designed to break
both body and spirit, yet he clung to one thought like a drowning man clings to
driftwood: Elara. Her face, her voice, the feeling of her in his arms. If he was to
die, he would die with her name on his lips and her memory in his heart.
Meanwhile, in her chambers where she was now imprisoned, Elara called for
one of her few remaining loyal servants, a young man named Petyr who had
served her since childhood.
"Petyr," she said, her voice urgent and low. "You must ride for Valdoria with all
the speed you can muster. Find King Daemon and tell him everything. Tell him
his son lives but will be executed in three days. Tell him to bring his army. It is
our only hope."
Petyr nodded, tears in his eyes, and slipped away into the night.
The third day arrived with terrible inevitability. Dawn broke cold and grey over
Ravencrest, and the execution square filled with crowds eager for spectacle.
They erected a platform of dark wood, and upon it stood the executioner with
his great axe, the blade gleaming like a hungry smile.
They brought Elian forth in chains, his body broken and bruised, his fine
features marked by suffering. But his eyes, those eyes that had looked upon
Elara with such love, still burned with defiant fire. They forced him to his
knees upon the platform, and the executioner raised his axe.
King Thaddeus stood before the crowd, preparing to give the order that would
end Elian's life. Elara, held between guards at the platform's base, struggled
against their grip, screaming Elian's name, begging her father for mercy that
would never come.
Thaddeus raised his hand. The executioner prepared to strike. The crowd held
its breath.
And then, like thunder rolling across the hills, came a sound that changed
everything: a war cry, vast and terrible and glorious. The army of Valdoria, led
by King Daemon himself, came pouring over the rise like an avenging tide.
Thousands of men, banners streaming, steel flashing in the morning light.
The execution square erupted into chaos. Thaddeus's guards rushed to
defend the walls, and in the confusion, the executioner lowered his axe.
Someone threw Elian the keys to his chains, and he freed himself, seizing a
sword from a fallen guard.
The battle that followed was brief but brutal. Valdorian soldiers poured into
the city, their fury unstoppable. They had come for their prince, and neither
wall nor weapon would stand in their way. Ravencrest's defenders, caught
unprepared during the festival, crumbled before the onslaught.
Elian did not run toward safety. Instead, he ran toward the battle, toward the
castle gates where King Thaddeus was rallying his personal guard. Despite his
wounds, despite the torture he had endured, Elian fought like a man
possessed. His sword sang through the air, cutting down any who stood
between him and the king.
One by one, Thaddeus's guards fell. The king himself took up a blade, fighting
with the desperate fury of a man who saw his kingdom burning around him.
But he was old, and Elian, even broken and bleeding, was young and driven by
something stronger than mere survival.
Their swords met in a clash of sparks. Once, twice, three times they traded
blows. Then Elian's blade found its mark, slicing across Thaddeus's sword
arm. The king's weapon clattered to the stones, and he fell to his knees,
clutching his wound.
Elian stood over him, his sword at the king's throat, breathing hard. Around
them, the sounds of battle were fading. Ravencrest had fallen. Thaddeus's
reign was over.
The square had grown quiet, all eyes upon the prince and the defeated king.
Elara, freed by the confusion, stood nearby, her hand covering her mouth,
tears streaming down her face.
Elian looked down at the broken king before him, and despite everything
Thaddeus had done, despite the torture and the cruelty and the deaths of his
friends, he felt no desire for vengeance. He was tired. Tired of war, tired of
bloodshed, tired of the endless cycle that had consumed their kingdoms for
generations.
"It is over, Thaddeus," Elian said, his voice carrying across the silent square.
"Your men are defeated. Ravencrest has fallen. I could end your life with a
flick of my wrist, and none would question my right to do so." He paused,
lowering his sword slightly. "But I offer you something better than death. I
offer you peace."
The crowd murmured in surprise. Thaddeus looked up at him, blood seeping
from his wounded arm, his face a mask of pain and confusion.
"End this war," Elian continued. "Here, now, before more fathers bury their
sons and more sons lose their fathers. Agree to peace between Valdoria and
Ravencrest. Allow me to marry your daughter, and let our union be the seal
upon a treaty that will bring prosperity to both our kingdoms. The contested
lands can be shared, their harvests divided equally. There need be no more
suffering."
For a long moment, Thaddeus said nothing. His eyes moved from Elian to
Elara, to the Valdorian soldiers who now filled his city, to the ruins of his once-
proud defenses. Slowly, painfully, he nodded.
"Yes," he rasped. "Yes, I agree. Peace. Let there be peace."
A cheer began to rise from the crowd, Valdorian and Ravencrest citizens alike,
weary of war and hungry for hope. Elian lowered his sword completely, relief
washing over him like a wave. He turned toward Elara, and she was running to
him, her face alight with joy and disbelief.
But Thaddeus was not a man who accepted defeat gracefully.
As Elian turned away, as the crowd began to celebrate, the king's good hand
found the dagger at his belt. With the last of his strength and all of his hatred,
he lunged forward and drove the blade deep into Elian's back.
The poison on the dagger's edge was ancient and potent, designed to kill
swiftly and without mercy. Elian gasped, his body going rigid with shock and
pain. He spun, and his sword moved almost of its own accord, a final reflex
born of years of training.
The blade took Thaddeus's head from his shoulders in one clean stroke.
The king's body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his treachery his final act
upon this earth. But the victory rang hollow, for Elian swayed on his feet, his
face draining of color as the poison spread through his veins like liquid fire.
His sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering against the stones. He
pressed a hand to the wound in his back, and when he drew it away, his palm
was slick with blood that looked too dark, too thick. The poison was already
doing its work, burning through him with terrible speed.
The pain was beyond bearing, a fire that consumed him from within. His vision
blurred, the world tilting and spinning around him. He tried to take a step, but
his legs would not obey. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath that would not
come.
"Elara," he whispered, her name torn from his lips like a final prayer, a last
desperate cry for the woman he loved.
She was running toward him, her dress flying behind her, her face twisted in
horror and anguish. But she was too far away, too far, and the poison was too
fast. The world was growing dark around the edges, cold creeping through his
limbs.
Elian tried to hold on, tried to wait for her, to see her face one last time, to tell
her he loved her. But the poison was merciless. His vision failed. His strength
fled. And with her name still echoing in the air, still reaching toward her across
the distance that separated them, Prince Elian of Valdoria collapsed onto the
cold stones and died.
"Elian!" Elara's scream tore through the square as she reached him, falling to
her knees beside his body. "Elian, no! Please, no!"
She gathered him into her arms, cradling his head against her chest, her tears
falling like rain upon his face. But his eyes stared unseeing at the grey sky
above. His hand, which had reached for her in his final moment, lay slack and
lifeless.
"Come back," she sobbed, rocking him back and forth. "Please come back to
me. Elian, please!"
But he was gone. He had died calling her name, died reaching for her, and she
had been mere seconds too late to hold him, to comfort him, to tell him one
last time that she loved him.
Around them, Valdorian soldiers knelt in respect for their fallen prince. King
Daemon pushed through the crowd, his face stricken with grief, and dropped
to his knees beside his son's body. But Elara could see nothing through her
tears, could hear nothing over the sound of her own broken heart. The prince
of Valdoria, who had braved enemy territory to save his men, who had found
love in the heart of darkness, who had chosen mercy over vengeance even at
the cost of his own life, was dead.
Elara held him close, rocking back and forth, her cries of anguish echoing
across the silent square. And in that moment, as she wept over the body of
the man she loved, the war between Valdoria and Ravencrest truly ended. Not
with a treaty or a coronation, but with tears and heartbreak and the terrible,
beautiful sacrifice of a prince who had dared to dream of peace.
In the years that followed, Elara would keep her promise. She became the
bridge between the kingdoms, working tirelessly to honor the peace that Elian
had died to achieve. The contested lands were shared, the wounds of war
slowly healed, and a new era dawned for both Valdoria and Ravencrest.
But every year, on the anniversary of his death, Elara would return to that
square where he had fallen. She would lay flowers on the monument they had
built in his honor, and she would whisper the words she had never gotten to
say enough: "I love you. I will always love you."
And somewhere, in whatever realm awaits beyond the veil of death, perhaps a
prince heard her words and smiled.