The great hall glowed like a jewel that night, every torch and candelabra blazing as if the kingdom itself sought to burn away the shadows of doubt. Musicians filled the air with song, the strings of their lutes weaving soft melodies of love and triumph. Nobles raised their cups, laughter echoed, and the banners of Eryndor draped the stone walls in red and gold.
But for Caedmon, every flicker of light felt like a knife. He stood among the lords and ladies, his goblet untouched, his gaze drawn again and again to her—Elswyth, radiant in a gown of white and silver. She walked at Athelric's side, her smile practiced, her laughter delicate as crystal. Yet her eyes… her eyes betrayed her.
When their gazes met across the crowded hall, the world hushed. For the span of a heartbeat, the music dulled, the chatter faded, and nothing remained but the silent language of two souls bound by love and torn by fate. In that single look, Caedmon felt both agony and ecstasy—agony that she belonged to another, ecstasy that her heart still belonged to him.
Athelric, proud and exultant, raised his goblet high. "To Eryndor! To Lady Elswyth, soon to be my bride!" The hall erupted in cheers, knights pounding their fists against tables, ladies clapping their hands, servants rushing with more wine.
Elswyth lifted her cup, her smile trembling like a candle in the wind. And as the crowd roared, she turned her head—just slightly, just long enough—to find Caedmon again. Their eyes locked, and in the depths of her gaze, he saw it: longing, sorrow, and an unspoken vow.
She was his, if only in secret.
The music swelled, and dancers filled the floor, but Caedmon barely noticed. Every heartbeat was a war between reason and desire. When Elswyth passed near his place at the table, her hand brushed the edge of his sleeve—so slight a touch that no one else could see it. Yet to Caedmon, it was a fire that seared through cloth and skin, straight into his soul.
That night, the kingdom toasted to triumph. But beneath the banners, beneath the laughter, two hearts betrayed a king's decree with nothing more than stolen glances and silent promises.
It was not wine that burned in Caedmon's chest—it was love, fierce and forbidden. And though no words passed between them, he knew: this feast was not a celebration. It was the beginning of a war written in the language of the heart.
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