The castle's halls were quieter than usual. War had left scars, and the people whispered of rebuilding, of mourning, of hope. For a brief moment, Aelion allowed himself to breathe freely, to savor the lingering warmth of Kealen's presence.
They had stolen hours together in the solitude of Aelion's chambers. The world outside raged with politics and rebuilding, but here… there was only them. Kealen stood by the window, moonlight painting his scarred face in silver. Aelion sat at the edge of the bed, watching him with a softness that no councilman, no soldier, could ever imagine.
"Do you ever think," Aelion asked quietly, "what life might be like without all of this? Without crowns or duty? Just… us."
Kealen turned, his eyes shadowed but gentle. "I think of it every day. But we are bound by more than duty, Aelion. There is the prophecy."
The words chilled the room.
As if summoned by their mention, a knock sounded at the chamber door. A trembling servant entered, clutching a parchment sealed with crimson wax. "Your Highness… this was delivered by a hooded rider. No one saw his face."
Aelion broke the seal with careful hands. His eyes scanned the elegant script, each word striking like a blade:
> The crown is not yours to keep, nor is the heart you claim.
One will rise. One will fall. The prophecy shall not be broken.
The parchment slipped from his fingers, landing like a shadow between him and Kealen.
Kealen crossed the room instantly, lifting the letter, his brow furrowing. His hand tightened around the edges until the paper crumpled. "They mean to use the prophecy against us."
"Or remind us that it was never ours to defy," Aelion said, his voice low, his heart hammering.
For the first time in days, silence hung between them—not of peace, but of fear.
Kealen knelt in front of Aelion, his hand covering the prince's. "Listen to me," he said, firm, almost desperate. "Prophecy or no, crown or no—I will not let them take you from me. Not while I draw breath."
Aelion's throat tightened, tears burning his eyes, but he managed a whisper: "Then perhaps it is me the prophecy means to take."
The words echoed into the night, heavier than any crown.