Forbidden Meetings

The stones of the castle were cold beneath Salem’s gloved hands, a stark contrast to the warmth that bloomed in his chest whenever Elara’s name, or more precisely, her presence, filled his thoughts. He traced the intricate carvings of a gargoyle, its stony gaze fixed on the distant, hazy outline of the woods where she lived. Each stolen moment with her was a breath of fresh air in the suffocating opulence of his life, a fleeting glimpse of a world unburdened by crowns and expectations.

He found her in the shadowed alcove of the west garden, a place few dared to venture, overgrown with climbing roses and choked with the sweet, heady scent of honeysuckle. She was tending to a patch of wilting moonpetal flowers, her brow furrowed in concentration, her fingers stained with the rich earth. The simple linen of her dress, a far cry from the silks and velvets he was accustomed to, did nothing to diminish the radiance of her spirit. It clung to her like a second skin, accentuating the graceful curve of her neck and the strength in her slender arms.

“Elara,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the quiet.