Chapter 15:
The Moonlit Confession
The palace gardens were a silvered dream under the full moon, their roses casting delicate shadows across the stone paths. Alaric paced beneath an arbor, his heart a war of hope and dread. Elara's revelation—Lady Elara Torren, daughter of a traitor—had shaken him, not because of her father's rebellion, but because of the weight she'd carried alone, a secret that made her courage in warning him about Cassian all the more extraordinary. He'd sent another message through Mira, begging Elara to meet him here, knowing each stolen moment risked everything: his marriage, his crown, her safety.
Cassian's blackmail hung like a blade, his threat to expose Elara as a traitor's heir a ticking clock. Alaric had spent the day in tense council meetings, Lysandra's icy presence a reminder of her ultimatum to distance himself from Elara. Yet, every thought led back to her—her hazel eyes, her quiet strength, the poetry book she clutched like a lifeline. He couldn't stay away, not when her life was at stake, not when his heart refused to let her go.
Elara emerged from the shadows, her gray cloak blending with the night, the poetry book tucked under her arm. Her face was pale, her eyes wary but softened by something deeper—longing, perhaps, or fear. "Alaric," she said, her voice low, using his name for the first time, a breach of protocol that sent a thrill through him. "This has to stop. Cassian's watching, Lysandra's watching—every time we meet, it tightens the noose."
"I know," he said, stepping closer, the moonlight catching the resolve in his eyes. "But I can't lose you, Elara. Not to Cassian, not to anyone. What you told me—about your father, your past—it only makes me want to protect you more."
Her breath hitched, and she clutched the book tighter, her knuckles white. "You don't understand what it means," she said, her voice trembling. "My father, Lord Torren, thought he could change Eldoria. He rallied nobles and villagers, promising a council where commoners had a voice, where taxes wouldn't starve them. But he was betrayed—by Lord Varric, Cassian's father. They killed him, Alaric, and my brother, and left me with nothing but a name that could get me killed."
The words poured out, raw and jagged, a wound reopened. Alaric's chest tightened, imagining her as a child, watching her father's execution, her world crumbling. "I was twelve," he said quietly, "when the rebellion failed. I heard the stories—Torren the traitor, they called him. But I never knew the man, or his daughter. I wish I had."
Elara's eyes glistened, but she shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. Cassian knows who I am because his family destroyed mine. He'll use me to ruin you, to break your alliance with Valoria. You have to let me go, Alaric. For your kingdom, for Lysandra."
The mention of Lysandra stung, her warnings echoing—End this, or I'll take steps—but Alaric's heart rebelled. "Lysandra's my duty," he said, his voice low, fierce. "But you're my heart. I love you, Elara. I've tried to fight it, to be the prince everyone expects, but I can't. Not when every moment with you feels like the only truth I know."
Her eyes widened, a tear slipping down her cheek. For a moment, she stood frozen, the poetry book pressed against her chest, as if his words were both a gift and a wound. "You can't love me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm a maid, a traitor's daughter. Your world is up there, with crowns and treaties. Mine's down here, in the shadows. We'll destroy each other."
"Then let us burn together," he said, closing the distance, his hands framing her face, gentle but unyielding. "I don't care about the crown if it means losing you. Tell me you don't feel this, and I'll walk away."
She trembled under his touch, her eyes searching his, and for a heartbeat, he thought she'd lean into him, let the world fall away. But she pulled back, her voice a ragged whisper. "I feel it," she admitted, the confession tearing at her. "But I won't be the reason you fall. I won't let my father's dream—his hope for a better Eldoria—end in another ruin."
She turned, her cloak swirling as she fled into the darkness, leaving Alaric alone with the roses and the ache of her rejection. Her words—I feel it—were a spark, proof she loved him too, but her fear, rooted in her father's failed rebellion, was a wall he didn't know how to breach. He didn't see the figure in the shadows—Lord Cassian's spy, slipping away to report the prince's confession, a final thread in the web that would soon entangle them all.