The endless Beauty

The Princes' Pursuit

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the palace gardens as Morha paced the length of the marble terrace. Her fingers twisted the delicate fabric of her gown, the silk whispering against her skin like a secret. She could hear the distant murmur of the courtiers inside, their laughter a stark contrast to the turmoil in her chest.

*He’s coming tonight.*

The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Matthew, the son of a diplomat from the neighboring kingdom, had been a f*******n fascination since the moment their paths crossed at the spring ball. His easy smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed—it was all too easy to forget the centuries-old decree that bound her: *Royal blood marries royal blood.*

A rustle of leaves made her turn. Her younger brother, Prince Elias, leaned against a pillar, his arms crossed. "You’re going to wear a hole in the terrace if you keep that up," he teased, though his eyes were sharp with concern.

Morha forced a smile. "Just enjoying the evening air."

Elias snorted. "Right. And I’m the crown prince." He pushed off the pillar and joined her, his voice dropping. "He’s here, you know. Father invited him to dinner."

Her breath hitched. "Why?"

"Because," Elias said, rolling his eyes, "Father likes him. Thinks he’s ‘refreshingly honest.’" He mimicked their father’s deep baritone, then sobered. "But you know what that means. If Father suspects anything—"

"I know," Morha cut in, her stomach tightening. The unspoken truth hung between them: their father would never allow it. Not when alliances were at stake.

Elias sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. "Look, I don’t care about tradition. But you need to be careful." He hesitated, then added, "For both your sakes."

Before she could reply, the grand doors to the terrace swung open, and the warm glow of chandeliers spilled out. A servant bowed. "Your Highness, dinner is served."

Morha straightened her shoulders, smoothing her expression into one of calm indifference. But as she stepped into the hall, her pulse betrayed her.

Matthew stood near the head of the table, his broad frame clad in a tailored navy suit that made his hazel eyes gleam under the light. He turned as she entered, and for a heartbeat, the room faded—just the two of them, suspended in time. Then he bowed, ever the proper guest. "Princess."

"Lord Matthew," she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

Her father, King Aldric, gestured for them to sit. "Matthew was just telling us about his travels through the northern provinces," he said, his tone jovial. "Fascinating stuff."

Matthew’s lips quirked. "I’m afraid I’ve been rambling, Your Majesty. The landscapes there are simply… unforgettable." His gaze flicked to Morha, and she felt the weight of the unspoken. *Like you.*

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation and silver clinking against porcelain. Morha played her part flawlessly, nodding at the right moments, laughing at the appropriate jokes. But every time Matthew’s fingers brushed his glass, every time he leaned forward to speak, she memorized the way his voice wrapped around her name.

It wasn’t until the dessert course that the conversation took a dangerous turn.

"So, Matthew," Queen Isolde began, her tone light but her eyes keen, "your father mentioned you’ve been considering marriage. Any prospects?"

The air thickened. Morha’s fork stilled mid-bite.

Matthew cleared his throat. "Ah, no, Your Majesty. Not yet."

King Aldric chuckled. "Nonsense! A young man like you? I’m sure the ladies are lining up." He winked, but there was an edge to his words. "Though, of course, alliances must be… carefully considered."

Morha’s nails dug into her palm under the table. *He knows.*

Matthew met the king’s gaze evenly. "I believe love should be the foundation of any union, Your Majesty."

A beat of silence. Then the king laughed, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Spoken like a true romantic. But duty must come first, don’t you think?"

Before Matthew could reply, Elias interjected with a story about a hunting mishap, deftly steering the conversation away. Morha exhaled slowly, but the tension lingered like a storm on the horizon.

As the evening drew to a close, Morha excused herself under the pretense of a headache. She slipped into the moonlit garden, the cool air a balm to her frayed nerves.

Footsteps sounded behind her.

"You’re not really unwell, are you?" Matthew’s voice was soft, close.

She turned, finding him mere inches away, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "No," she admitted.

He stepped closer, his hand hovering near hers, not quite touching. "Morha…" Her name was a plea.

She wanted to lean into him, to let the world fall away. But the weight of her crown pressed down. "We can’t," she whispered.

"Why?" His fingers finally grazed hers, sending sparks up her arm. "Because of some ancient rule?"

"Because my father will never allow it," she said, her voice breaking. "Because our kingdoms need alliances, not scandals."

Matthew cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "Then let’s change the rules."

She wanted to believe him. But before she could reply, a twig snapped nearby. They sprang apart just as Elias rounded the hedges, his face grim.

"Father’s looking for you," he said tightly. Then, to Matthew, "You should go. Now."

Matthew hesitated, his eyes locked on Morha. "This isn’t over."

Elias grabbed his arm. "It will be if you don’t leave."

With one last lingering look, Matthew disappeared into the shadows.

Morha’s knees threatened to buckle. Elias steadied her. "You’re playing with fire," he murmured.

She swallowed hard. "I know."

But as she walked back to the palace, her heart ached with the truth: she was already burning.

And she didn’t want to stop.