Immortal: Death in love

The prophecy

The kingdom of Celerius glittered beneath the pale dawn like a crown dipped in gold. Its noble houses whispered of honor, of glory but in the manor of Lord Elphus and Lady Theresa, silence reigned heavier than wealth itself.

Eighteen years of marriage.

Eighteen years of prayers, tears and no child.

Theresa’s beauty had withered into desperation. Each moon she begged the gods for mercy, but none listened. Healers failed her, priests lied to comfort her, and still her womb remained cold. Only her dearest friend, Deleria, dared to speak of darker hopes.

“There is one who can help you,” Deleria had whispered, eyes flicking toward the far eastern hills.

“A witch who owes no allegiance to man or god. She can give you what the heavens have denied.”

Hope, fragile and wicked, flared in Theresa’s chest. She told her husband, and by the next dawn, the noble couple rode eastward beneath a bleeding sunrise.

The forest grew ancient as they traveled, branches knotted like veins of old gods, until at last a cave yawned before them. The air was cold and alive. every leaf seemed to watch. From the shadows stepped a figure cloaked in black. No face, only darkness beneath her hood.

Theresa’s breath caught. Her husband’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but the witch’s voice slid through the air before he could speak.

“You need not explain,” she said, low and calm. “I know why you are here.”

Theresa fell to her knees in desperation. “Please help us. I would give anything.”

The witch’s head tilted, the folds of her hood shifting like smoke.

“Anything? Even destiny itself?”

Theresa swallowed the tremor in her voice. “Yes.”

A silence heavier than thunder filled the cave. Then the witch spoke, her tone colder than the mountain wind.

“You are barren not by curse, but by prophecy. The universe resists your desire because your womb was chosen to carry what must not be born.”

Elphus stepped forward, voice shaking. “What prophecy?”

“You will bear a daughter,” the witch murmured. “She will be grace made flesh. Men will love her, kingdoms will envy her and her love will awaken the ancient beast, Aliath. Her love will be the death of her.”

Theresa’s heart pounded like a trapped bird. “No,” she whispered. “No prophecy will decide my child’s fate. I will protect her from the world itself if I must.”

The witch’s smile was unseen, but her laughter trembled through the stones.

“So be it. Drink this potion beneath the moon before you lie with your husband, and the seed of destiny shall quicken within you. But remember, my lady, love cannot be caged forever.”

When they left the cave, the night smelled of rain and ruin. Theresa clutched the vial close, feeling the faint pulse of something alive within it. She would give her child life, even if it meant defying the stars.

Across the same kingdom, far from marble halls and silken beds, a farmer and his wife prayed beneath a leaky roof. Their hands were rough, their hearts pure, and they too had known the ache of empty years. They could not buy miracles, so they begged the heavens for mercy.

The stars listened in their own cruel way. For the prophecy that haunted Theresa’s womb belonged to them as well. The humble wife would bear a son, a boy whose heart would one day find the forbidden girl, and together they would awaken the sleeping doom.

Time passed, and both women felt the stirring of new life. Theresa’s joy was shadowed by the witch’s words, so she sealed her house in fear. Windows were nailed shut, doors barred, sunlight rationed like hope. She waited, trembling, until the ninth month.

When the moon was fullest, she screamed through the night and brought forth a child. The baby’s cry sounded almost divine.

“Morgana,” she whispered. “My beautiful Morgana.”

In a small cottage miles away, the farmer’s wife wept with equal joy, holding a son she named Lucius.

Morgana grew into the promise of her birth, radiant, curious, untamable. But Theresa never forgot the prophecy. Her daughter’s world was reduced to candlelight and guarded corridors. Morgana saw the sun only once a year, on her birthday, escorted by maids and watchful eyes.

Yet curiosity is a living thing. On stolen afternoons she would slip beyond the manor walls, her laughter fluttering like wild birds along the riverbank. There she found her secret joy: a patch of berries that grew sweeter than anything behind the walls.

Lucius, meanwhile, grew under the wide sky. He was strong, humble, and beloved by the villagers. a boy who carried light in his smile, unaware that destiny had already marked him.

On the morning of Morgana’s eighteenth birthday, the sky gleamed like polished glass. Theresa’s warnings echoed through the halls as the girl was escorted toward her annual glimpse of freedom. Yet the moment she reached the riverbank, the wind whispered her name, as if the world itself were calling her home.

Lucius was working nearby when he saw her. One glance, and the rhythm of his heart faltered. The sunlight danced through her hair like gold in water; her laughter broke something open inside him. He could not help but follow, drawn by a force older than memory.

Morgana sensed his gaze before she saw him. She turned, but before their eyes could truly meet, her guards caught up, whisking her away.

Lucius stood frozen, breathless, as if waking from a dream. He would return to that place again and again, hoping to see her. Morgana too could not forget the shadowed stranger whose eyes had burned through her soul.

The days after Morgana’s eighteenth birthday were golden and cruel. She often found herself by the window, staring toward the horizon where the river curved beyond sight, her thoughts wandering to the mysterious young man who had appeared like a whisper in her life.

But joy is a fragile thing. Fate has a way of reclaiming what it lends.

Lord Elphus’s health began to fail without warning. At first it was fatigue, then fevers that left him trembling through the nights. The healers came and went, their herbs useless, their eyes heavy with pity. Theresa sat by his bedside each dawn, her once-beautiful hands clasped in silent prayer.

Morgana watched helplessly, the air of the manor growing colder with each passing day. The servants whispered of curses, of divine punishment. Morgana tried to dismiss them, but deep down, a memory stirred by the witch’s prophecy, long buried in her mother’s heart.

One night, when Elphus’s breathing had grown shallow, Theresa sent everyone away and held his hand until dawn. When the first light touched his face, he was gone.

Her scream shattered the morning.

Morgana came running, tears already streaming. She found her mother clutching her father’s still body, rocking him as if she could will life back into him. “Papa…” Morgana whispered, falling to her knees beside the bed.

Theresa turned to her, eyes wild and full of grief. “He’s gone because of me,” she choked. “Because I defied the prophecy. Because I brought you into this world.”

Morgana froze. “What are you saying?”

Her mother’s voice trembled with despair. “You were never meant to be born, my love. I begged for you, and the witch warned me what it would cost. She said your love would awaken destruction, that death would follow you.”

Morgana’s breath caught. “That’s madness. I don’t believe you.”

Theresa grabbed her shoulders, shaking. “You must! Promise me you will never love. Promise me you will not give your heart to anyone.”

“I can’t promise that,” Morgana whispered, tears spilling down her face. “You can’t ask me to live without love.”

Theresa’s voice broke. “Then you’ll die like your father. Like all who love you.”

She fled the room before her mother could say more, her chest burning with confusion and pain. She wanted to scream at the gods, to tear down the heavens that had cursed her family.

That night, when she finally closed her eyes, the dream came.

She was standing in a field of ash. The sky burned red. A shadow moved through the smoke, a creature with wings of fire and eyes like molten gold. Its voice was both thunder and whisper.

“Morgana,” it said, “you are mine.”

She woke screaming.

The weeks that followed were suffocating. Theresa’s grief twisted into obsession. She locked the gates, dismissed most of the servants, and turned the manor into a mausoleum. She forbade Morgana from stepping outside.

But grief cannot cage youth forever.

One evening, while the maids slept and her mother prayed, Morgana slipped out through a hidden passage beneath the garden wall. The night was cool and fragrant, the moon reflected in the river like a shard of silver.

And there he was.

Lucius stood by the water, the same young man whose eyes had haunted her dreams. He turned when he heard her footsteps, disbelief flashing across his face.

“It’s you,” he breathed. “I thought I imagined you.”

Morgana felt her pulse race. “And yet here we are.”

They talked until the stars began to fade, sharing laughter that felt too real, too easy for two souls bound by fate. When he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, the world seemed to hold its breath.

For the first time, Morgana felt truly alive.

They met again, and again, always by the river. Each meeting a stolen miracle. Each touch a spark feeding a fire she could no longer deny.

But destiny was watching.

Theresa soon noticed her daughter’s glow, the kind of happiness that no prayer could give. Suspicion grew like poison. One night she followed Morgana through the hidden gate and saw them together beneath the moonlight, their hands entwined.

Her scream split the night.

“Morgana!”

Lucius turned, startled, but Morgana froze in terror. Theresa’s face was pale with fury and horror.

“You’ve doomed us all!” she cried. “The prophecy is awakening!”

“Mother, please” Morgana tried to explain, but Theresa struck her across the face, trembling. “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve invited death into our home!”

Lucius stepped forward, voice steady. “My lady, I love your daughter. I would never harm her.”

Theresa’s eyes burned with rage and despair. “Love? That word is your curse.” She drew a dagger from her cloak, the one she had once kept for protection. “If this prophecy demands blood, then I’ll end it before it begins.”

Morgana screamed as Lucius stepped between them. “No!”

The blade slashed across his shoulder. Blood darkened his tunic, but he didn’t fall. He grabbed Morgana’s hand and pulled her toward the woods.

Theresa called after them, her voice breaking into sobs. “Run, then! But know that doom follows you both!”

The forest swallowed their cries.

They didn’t stop running until the moon hid behind the clouds. Morgana’s dress was torn, her feet bleeding, but she didn’t care. She pressed her hand against Lucius’s wound, whispering through tears, “I’m so sorry… this is my fault.”

He caught her trembling fingers. “No, Morgana. Whatever curse binds us, I’d rather die with you than live without you.”

His words shattered what remained of her restraint. She leaned into him, her lips finding his beneath the shadow of the trees. It was a kiss born of desperation, beautiful and doomed.

The ground trembled.