Fifty Six
Lord River didn’t slow as he crossed the garden path. He walked straight past the Crown Prince of the Western Kingdom, past the dragon-gold eyes that missed nothing and went only to Zaria, as if the rest of the world had been wiped clean the moment he found her. “My love,” he said, voice low with relief and something sharper beneath it. “I missed you.” Usually, his affection was measured. Cheek, brow, the soft propriety of an elf lord who understood optics and whispers. But this time he didn’t pause to consider an audience. He caught her mouth with his. It was not cruel. It was not rough. It was… desperate. A claim made in the only language panic could speak. Zaria startled, not because River had ever been unkind to her, but because the impulse was new, startling in its honesty. H
- Writer
