The palace of Elyndor was not merely a dwelling for kings: it was a monument raised against time itself. Its corridors, older than the ashes of forgotten wars, bore stories carved in stone, gold, and blood. Every column stood as a vow, every stained glass window a remembrance of battles won and enemies fallen.
That night, however, the architectural grandeur did not rest solely on the splendor of kings and princes. The ball convened by the crowned heir, Yoham of Elyndor, carried an almost supernatural aura.
The musicians, aligned beneath the suspended balcony, wore white robes embroidered with threads of silver. The bows of the viols, rising in unison, seemed like blades poised to strike, yet the sound they produced was liquid and supple, like a river guided by unseen hands. The breath of flutes and oboes wove a veil of melancholy, while the grave rhythm of drums resembled hearts beating in march toward inevitable fates.
The music, like a silver stream, flowed from the hall and slipped into the outer shadows. It passed through gilded arches, cold marble, the tapestries that told of dragons and saintly kings. And finally, it escaped through the open doors to the garden, where it mingled with the whisper of nocturnal leaves.
The garden itself was another stage, built as though the gods had shaped every branch. Stone paths wound among blue roses, unique flowers of Elyndor that exhaled a soft, bewitching perfume. Statues of ancient warriors stood watch, motionless and solemn, over the steps of the living. And the lake at its center reflected the night sky like a perfect mirror, duplicating the moon at the same instant it duplicated the fate of those who lingered there.
It was in this setting that Marin and Yoham stood — two presences that were more than mere figures: they were living omens.
Marin was engulfed in an invisible struggle. The moonlight, which softened her features, did nothing to soften the terror within her soul. With every instant that Yoham's lips remained upon her hand, the world seemed to freeze.
It was not only the gesture, but the intensity. His silver eyes blazed like embers hidden beneath snow. She felt herself dragged by that gaze, as though a tide's current pulled her toward an abyss from which there could be no return.
And yet, there was something in her that trembled differently: a memory. An ancient echo. Years before, long before she knew his true name, Yoham had been nothing more than a traveling companion, an unlikely ally upon roads of blood and dust.
The shock now was not only to see him: it was to recognize him.
The crown prince, the predator dressed in silver, was the same man who had once walked beside her through rain and sun, sharing bread and stories beside campfires.
But how? How had a lost friend become the herald of destruction?
Her turquoise eyes trembled, as though seeking to escape, but her hand remained captive, soft yet firm, in his. Yoham needed no chains to bind her.
"Marin," Yoham said, his voice sliding like honey over blades."Look at me. Just once. Do not flee with your eyes as you fled with your feet."
She swallowed dryly but did not respond.
He smiled. Not the smile of a prince at a feast, but the smile of a hunter who corners his prey with infinite patience.
"Do you remember me so?" he went on, his tone low, grave, resounding like a confession. "I, the man who marched at your side, who saw fields burn and yet still offered you hope... Did none of it leave its mark upon you?"
Marin closed her eyes for an instant, as if to deny him the power those words held. But in doing so, memories surged forth: a young man with hair already white, laughing by a dusty road; calloused hands offering her a cloak when she shivered from cold; the trust he inspired in days of uncertainty.
She opened her eyes, frightened by the weakness of her own memory.
Yoham noticed. He always noticed.
"Ah… so you do remember," he said softly, and his hand pressed hers with greater firmness.
Marin's heart pounded.
The closeness between them was not merely physical. It was as if the entire garden breathed in unison with the prince. The wind, which had once blown freely, now seemed to circle around Yoham. The lake reflected only his image, as though the moon itself had bowed before him.
Marin, in turn, felt small. Not because she was fragile, but because Yoham overflowed with something greater than ordinary life. He bore upon him the mark of prophecy.
All of Elyndor knew the whispers: the heir of silver eyes would bring both glory and ruin. Some believed Yoham would be the savior of realms, and others, their executioner.
Marin had always believed the latter. After all, the war that devastated borders, the monsters loosed from dark lands, the flames that consumed cities — all bore Yoham's shadow.
And yet, before her now, there stood not only a tyrant in potential, but a man. A man who claimed to have loved her, who swore he had endured years of suffering for her sake.
It was a prison more cruel than any cell.
"Marin," he whispered, leaning closer, his warm breath brushing her face. "I could not bear your absence. Every day was a battle, and every victory, hollow without you."
She wanted to protest. Wanted to cry out that he was not the same man she had known. That he was a monster, the enemy of the world.
But no voice came.
Her dry throat allowed only a murmur:"You… you should not be here."
Yoham smiled with cruel tenderness."I should be everywhere, Marin. For without you, none of those places belong to me."
She trembled.
And then he pulled her, with a smooth motion, closer against him. Her body collided with his — firm as steel, hot as fire.
For an instant, Marin felt the universe halt.
Her face was but a breath from his. Their lips nearly brushed. Temptation burned hotter than any flame.
And yet, fear was greater.
Marin remembered well the time when the name "Yoham" carried no crown, but only the weight of a fellow traveler. It had been in autumn, when the winds bore the scent of burning leaves, that she first met him.
He had not announced himself as a prince. There had been no title, no pomp, only those silver eyes that seemed to see through everything.
At the time, Marin had not suspected. She had thought him nothing more than a weary swordsman who, like so many others, sought bread and destiny.
But Yoham was already different. Even in the simplest gestures, there was a solemnity that betrayed his nature. Even when lighting a fire, he moved as if performing a ritual.
She remembered laughing with him, hearing him tell invented stories of distant cities. He spoke of deserts of glass, of seas where the sun never set, of towers rising above the clouds. Many of these tales, Marin now knew, were true — memories of journeys made in secret, hidden from the court.
At that time, Yoham had been freedom. A fascinating mystery.
And now, that same man held her prisoner with a single touch.
"You think of fleeing," Yoham murmured, his face so close she could feel the heat of his breath. "I see it in your eyes. But it is useless, Marin. You may deceive all others… but not me."
She tried to draw back, but he held her wrist with delicate inflexibility.
"I fought monsters beyond human imagination," he went on, "and still none haunt me like the thought of losing you. Do you think I endured years of pain only for ambition? No. I endured it for you."
The words entered her like blades, cutting between fear and remembrance.
"You speak as if…" her trembling voice faltered. "As if the entire world were only a stage for this moment."
Yoham leaned closer, smiling."Is it not? The world is but a veil. And behind it… is you."
Marin shuddered.
Behind the sweet words, there was something far greater. Marin knew it well.
The fate of Elyndor rested not only on alliances or armies. There was the Prophecy of the Broken Moon, an enigma repeated for centuries by priests.
"When the son of silver takes the throne, the stars will fall and the earth will drink blood. From him shall come both beginning and end."
Many laughed at these words, saying they were mere metaphor. But Marin had seen enough not to doubt.
She had seen cities destroyed.She had seen Yoham fight alone against legions of beasts, his sword blazing like lightning.She had seen — and she knew he was no ordinary man.
If he desired her, it was not only as a woman. It was as a key. A piece of a greater destiny.
And that terrified her more than any possible kiss.
Suddenly, Yoham released her hand only to place his palm upon her face. His fingers, cold and firm, traced the line of her jaw, rising to brush against strands of turquoise hair.
"You still wear that perfume," he said in a low, almost devout voice. "Blue rose of the eastern garden… I remember. I always remember."
She held her breath, paralyzed.
"Do not speak that way," she whispered, struggling to regain control. "Do not speak as if nothing has changed."
"But nothing has changed," Yoham retorted with fervor, leaning even closer. "You are still Marin. My Marin. That is all that matters."
Her heart raced."Mine?"
A chill coursed down her spine, mingled with something she dared not name.
Yoham brought his lips close to her ear, his voice now so low it seemed a forbidden confession.
"I could claim you now," he murmured, each word a burning coal. "Nothing would stop me. Not the empire, not the gods. But… I will not. Because I do not want the body that resists. I want the heart that trembles."
Marin shut her eyes, feeling herself sink into an abyss.
She knew Yoham did not lie. That was the gravest danger: the sincerity of a man capable of setting the world aflame just to follow her.
"You are dangerous…" she murmured, her voice broken.
He smiled. "And you are the only one capable of bearing that danger."
The music of the ball still echoed in the distance, but Marin no longer heard it. For her, there was only the muffled cadence of her own heart.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP…
Yoham pulled back just enough to look into her eyes."Look at me, Marin."
She tried to resist, but her gaze was drawn, irresistibly, into his.Silver against turquoise.Light against sea.Two elements destined to collide.
"You cannot flee from me," he said. "Not in this life, nor in any other."
The words struck her like a spell.
Desperate, Marin sought within herself some remnant of strength. She tried to summon the energy that slept in her blood — the same energy that had once saved cities. But when she raised her free hand, Yoham caught it effortlessly, as though he had foreseen the gesture.
"No," he said, with implacable gentleness. "You will not drive me away with power. I know your soul. I know even the way you breathe."
She gasped, suffocated by the truth he spilled mercilessly.
"You do not understand…" she tried to say, but her voice faltered.
"I understand everything," Yoham cut across her. "And that is why I am here. Because without you, there is no empire. No future."
Marin felt the weight of a thousand destinies descend upon her.
For an instant, the entire world seemed to lean. Yoham lowered his face even more, his lips almost brushing hers. Marin closed her eyes in pure reflex, her body paralyzed between escape and surrender.
But the kiss did not come.
He stopped a breath away.
"Not now," he whispered, his voice laden with restrained fire. "You would still flee. And I do not want you to flee. I want you to choose."
The words struck her like an icy chain.
He withdrew just enough to let her breathe, yet still held her within his arms.
Marin opened her eyes, confused, her heart pounding as never before.
In the distance, the sound of drums from the ball changed. It was a new music, faster, more intense. But Marin knew, in her soul, that it was not mere melody.
It was a portent.
War was near.And Yoham — the silver prince, the lost companion, the impossible lover — would be at its heart.
She felt it with painful clarity: nothing could stop him. Not even she.
But he believed. He believed she would be his anchor, his reason.And that was the greatest dilemma.
For if she yielded… perhaps the world would burn all the faster.