The feast hall was alive with firelight and song. Lutes strummed, drums throbbed, voices rose in laughter. Nobles toasted, goblets clashed, and all around them the kingdom reveled. Yet Caedmon heard nothing but the silent melody of his own heart.
He sat across from Elswyth, the long banquet table between them, crowded with roasted boar, spiced wine, and golden bread. To any eye, they were but prince and lady, separated by propriety. But beneath the noise, their hearts conversed in silence.
A minstrel began a ballad—a song of two lovers separated by fate, who met in secret only to perish together. The hall cheered, but Elswyth kept her head bowed, her hand trembling around the silver goblet. When she dared to lift her gaze, Caedmon was already watching.
He did not move his lips, but she heard him all the same. His eyes sang to her: I love you. I am yours.
She touched the necklace at her throat—a simple token he had once gifted her in secret. Her lips parted slightly, forming the words she dared not speak aloud: I love you.
The song swelled. The hall erupted in applause. Yet to them, all was silence. In the midst of music and mirth, their souls shared a serenade no lute could play, no voice could sing.
And in that silent exchange, their love rang louder than all the revelry of the hall.
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