A Flame That Cannot Be Extinguished
1107 Words
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the palace gardens, but Morha barely noticed. Her fingers clutched the edge of the marble balustrade, her knuckles white with tension. Behind her, the soft rustle of silk announced her mother’s arrival.
“You cannot keep avoiding this conversation,” Queen Isolde said, her voice firm but not unkind.
Morha turned, the weight of her crown suddenly unbearable. “I’m not avoiding it. I just don’t see the point in discussing it further. My heart is set.”
The queen sighed, stepping closer. “You know the laws, Morha. Our family has upheld them for centuries. Marrying outside the royal bloodlines would—”
“Tarnish our legacy?” Morha interrupted, her voice sharp. “Or is it that you don’t trust me to know my own heart?”
Isolde’s expression softened. “It’s not about trust. It’s about duty. You are the future of this kingdom. Your choices affect more than just yourself.”
Morha looked away, her gaze drifting to the distant hills where Matthew’s village lay. The memory of his laughter, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, sent a pang through her chest. “And what if my duty is to be happy? To show our people that love isn’t bound by titles?”
The queen hesitated, then reached out to brush a stray curl from Morha’s face. “You’ve always been stubborn, just like your father.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “But even he couldn’t defy tradition.”
Morha’s shoulders slumped. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
Before Isolde could answer, a messenger hurried into the garden, bowing hastily. “Your Majesty, Princess—Lord Darian of Vaeloria has arrived. He requests an audience.”
Morha’s stomach twisted. Darian. The man her parents had been subtly pushing toward her for months. The *suitable* match.
Isolde straightened, her regal mask slipping back into place. “Tell him we’ll receive him in the throne room.”
As the messenger scurried away, Morha gripped her mother’s arm. “Please. Don’t make me do this.”
The queen’s eyes held a flicker of sympathy, but her voice was resolute. “You will greet him with grace. The rest… we’ll discuss later.”
---
The throne room was alight with candles, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the gilded walls. Morha sat stiffly beside her father, King Aldric, her spine straight as a rod. The doors creaked open, and Darian strode in, his polished boots clicking against the marble floor.
He was handsome, in a calculated way—sharp jawline, perfectly coiffed hair, a smile that didn’t quite reach his cold blue eyes. He bowed deeply. “Your Majesties. Princess Morha. It’s an honor to be welcomed into your home once again.”
Aldric nodded. “Rise, Lord Darian. We’re pleased to have you.”
Darian’s gaze lingered on Morha, and she forced herself not to recoil. “The pleasure is mine. I’ve brought gifts from Vaeloria—spices, silks, and a rare tome I thought might interest the princess.”
Morha managed a tight smile. “How thoughtful.”
The king gestured to the empty seat beside Morha. “Join us. We’ve much to discuss.”
As Darian took his place, his sleeve brushed against Morha’s arm, sending a shiver down her spine—not from attraction, but from the sheer wrongness of it. This wasn’t where she was meant to be.
---
Later, under the pretense of needing air, Morha slipped away to the palace stables. The scent of hay and horses was a welcome reprieve from the stifling formality of the court. She leaned against the stall of her favorite mare, stroking its velvety nose.
“I had a feeling I’d find you here.”
Morha whirled around to find Matthew standing in the doorway, his dark hair tousled from the wind, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal sun-kissed forearms. Her heart leaped.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, though every fiber of her being screamed for her to run to him.
Matthew stepped closer, his brown eyes earnest. “I had to see you. I heard about Darian’s arrival.”
Morha’s throat tightened. “It’s just politics. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t it?” He reached for her hand, his touch warm and familiar. “Morha, I can’t stand by and watch you marry someone else. Not when I—”
“Don’t,” she pleaded, pulling away. “If you say it, I won’t be able to stay strong.”
Matthew’s jaw clenched. “Then let me be weak for both of us. I love you. And I know you love me too.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Of course I do. But love isn’t enough. Not when the entire kingdom is watching.”
“Then we’ll change their minds.” His voice was fierce. “There has to be a way.”
Morha wanted to believe him. But the weight of centuries of tradition pressed down on her. “And if there isn’t?”
Matthew cupped her face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Then we’ll run. Start over somewhere no one knows us.”
The idea was tempting. But Morha had spent her life preparing to rule. Could she really abandon her people?
Before she could answer, the sound of approaching footsteps made them both freeze.
“Princess?” a guard called from outside. “Your presence is requested in the hall.”
Matthew’s grip tightened. “Meet me tonight. By the old oak tree. Please.”
Morha hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be there.”
As she walked back to the palace, her heart warred with her duty. The flame between her and Matthew refused to be extinguished—but would it be enough to withstand the storm ahead?
---
That night, under a sky strewn with stars, Morha crept through the palace corridors, her cloak pulled tight around her. Every shadow made her jump, every creak of the floorboards sounded like a warning. But the thought of Matthew waiting for her propelled her forward.
She slipped through the garden gate, the cool night air brushing against her cheeks. The old oak tree stood at the edge of the royal grounds, its gnarled branches stretching toward the heavens. And there, beneath it, was Matthew.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his face lighting up. “You came.”
Morha threw herself into his arms, breathing in the scent of him—earth and warmth and home. “I couldn’t
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