The war had ended, though the scars of it ran deeper than the eye could see. Kingdoms rebuilt their walls and mended their fields, but there were wounds no stone or soil could ever truly heal. History, written by trembling hands and weary scribes, told of the great prince who rose against prophecy and the battles that carved his name into eternity. Yet the scrolls remained silent on the truth that mattered most—the love that burned behind those battles, and the man who never left his side.
Years had passed, and yet the echoes of war lingered in the palace halls. Aelion stood taller now, the weight of his crown settled firmly on his brow. He had grown into the king the people needed—just, unyielding, and filled with a strange, unshakable gentleness. But in the quiet of his chambers, in the moments between dawn and dusk when no one watched, he was simply Aelion, the boy who once dreamed of freedom, who had once feared his own heart.
And Kealen was still there. Always.
They walked together through the royal gardens, a place that had become their sanctuary. The roses climbed the stone walls, their crimson blooms bursting with life, as though mocking the blood that had once stained the very earth beneath them. The old oak tree still stood, its branches wide and unbroken, the same tree where they had stolen their first kiss, where fear had finally surrendered to truth.
Aelion lowered himself onto the bench beneath it, setting the crown gently beside him. "Do you ever think," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of memory, "that we were only meant to survive, not to be happy?"
Kealen stood a moment longer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword—an instinct he had never shaken. When he finally sat beside the king, he reached for Aelion's hand without hesitation. The touch was steady, grounding. "We survived because we were meant to be happy," he replied. "Because even the gods could not deny us this."
The prince—no, the king—smiled, soft and weary, his thumb tracing the roughness of Kealen's skin. "History will never tell our story."
"Then let it be ours alone," Kealen said, leaning closer until his forehead touched Aelion's. "We don't need the world to remember. We only need each other."
A breeze rustled through the garden, carrying with it the scent of roses and earth. In that silence, in that stillness, there was no kingdom, no war, no prophecy—only two souls who had fought against fate and chosen one another.
Their lips met again, not in the desperation of battle or the fear of loss, but in the peace they had bled to earn. It was a kiss that spoke of vows stronger than crowns, of promises whispered in shadows and kept in the light.
The Silent Oath—unwritten, unspoken—bound them tighter than destiny ever could.
And though history would forget, the world itself seemed to remember.