The prince's heart
The palace gardens were a tapestry of silver under the full moon, their roses glowing faintly as Alaric paced the stone path. His heart raced, not from the day’s endless duties but from the thought of Elara. She’d agreed to meet him here, despite her hesitations, and the weight of what he wanted to say pressed against his chest.
Elara emerged from the shadows, her simple dress a stark contrast to the opulence around them. Her eyes, bright and wary, met his. “You shouldn’t be here, Your Highness,” she whispered, glancing at the darkened windows of the palace. “If we’re seen—”
“I don’t care,” Alaric said, stepping closer. “Elara, I can’t keep pretending. Every moment I’m with you, I feel alive. Not a prince, not a pawn—just me.”
Her breath caught, and she shook her head. “You’re not just a man, Alaric. You’re the crown prince. Your world is up there”—she gestured toward the palace—“and mine is below it. We can’t change that.”
“We can,” he insisted, his voice low but fierce. “I love you, Elara. I’ve tried to fight it, to honor my vows, my kingdom—but I can’t. I won’t.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. “You don’t understand what you’re asking. If I let myself love you, I’ll lose everything—my safety, my place here. And you… you could lose your throne.”
“Then let me lose it,” he said, taking her hands. Her fingers trembled in his, warm despite the night’s chill. “You’re worth more than any crown.”
She pulled away, her voice breaking. “Don’t say that. You’re meant to lead Eldoria. I won’t be the reason you fall.” Before he could respond, she turned and fled into the darkness, leaving him alone with the roses and the ache in his heart.