The countryside at night was alive in a way the city never was. Crickets hummed like a constant symphony, frogs croaked from distant ponds, and the occasional hoot of an owl echoed across the fields. The stars, unbroken by smog or skyscrapers, spilled across the sky in glittering rivers. Adrian had almost forgotten skies could look like this.
He stood at the balcony of his suite in the estate, sleeves rolled up, a glass of untouched wine in hand. The house was too quiet, too polished, too sterile. All day, he had endured the murmurs of staff, the probing glances of estate managers who waited for orders he had no interest in giving.
But his mind wasn't here. It was back in the village. Back with her.
Elara.
The girl with fire in her eyes and earth under her fingernails. The girl who hadn't smiled at him, not really, but had left him with a sense of rawness that no glittering ballroom had ever managed. He could still hear her voice—sharp, guarded, alive.
He set the glass down and turned abruptly. The estate felt like a cage again. He needed air. No, he needed her.
Adrian slipped out of the back gates after midnight, dressed plainly—no suit, no polished shoes, only a white shirt and dark trousers. He doubted anyone at the mansion noticed; servants were trained to pretend not to see.
The dirt road stretched quietly under the moon. Lanterns in the village had long been extinguished, but the stars lit his way. He didn't know what he was looking for—perhaps just the hope of stumbling upon her again.
The sound reached him first: the gentle rush of water. Following it, he discovered a stream winding through the edge of the fields. And there she was.
Elara sat on a flat rock near the water, her skirt gathered around her knees, bare feet dangling just above the current. Her hair was loose tonight, tumoring over her shoulders in chestnut waves that caught the moonlight. In her hands, she held a small lantern, unlit, as if she'd brought it but chosen to let the night be her only flame.
Adrian froze, breath caught. She hadn't noticed him yet. She looked softer here than she had in the marketplace, almost… untouchable.
Then her voice cut through the night. "How long do you plan to lurk in the shadows?"
Adrian startled. "You knew I was here?"
Elara didn't turn. "The crickets stopped the moment you stepped too close. City boots don't belong here."
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. He stepped forward, careful not to spook her. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You did." Finally, she glanced at him, her eyes glinting under the stars. "But you might as well sit. You look ridiculous standing there."
Adrian obeyed, lowering himself onto the grass near the rock. The stream whispered between them, carrying fragments of moonlight.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked.
"Listening," she replied simply.
"To what?"
"The earth." She pressed a hand into the soil beside her. "It speaks if you're quiet enough."
Adrian studied her profile. There was no irony in her words, no mockery. Only sincerity. The city had trained him to laugh at such ideas, but sitting here, he couldn't.
"And what does it say?" he asked softly.
"That it remembers. Every step, every seed, every secret we try to bury. The earth never forgets."
Her words struck deeper than he expected, echoing uncomfortably with the secrets he carried—the engagement, the chains of his family name, the lies he already told her by omission.
He cleared his throat. "That sounds… heavy."
"It's honest," she said, finally looking at him fully. "Something I doubt you're used to."
Adrian flinched, but instead of retreating, he met her gaze. "You're right. I'm not. But maybe I'd like to be."
For the first time, her expression softened—not quite trust, but curiosity. She tilted her head, studying him as though weighing whether to believe him.
They sat in silence for a while, the night filling the space their words couldn't. Adrian leaned back on his elbows, staring at the endless stars.
"In the city," he said at last, "you can't see this."
Elara followed his gaze. "The stars?"
"Yes. Too many lights, too much smoke. We build towers so tall we forget the sky is even there."
Her lips curved faintly. "So you came here to remember it?"
"Maybe." He glanced at her. "Or maybe I came here to remember myself."
She said nothing, but something shifted in her eyes—like she recognized the weight of his words.
As the hours slipped by, conversation flowed more easily. Elara spoke of her family: her younger brother Tomas, reckless but bright; her widowed mother, who worked tirelessly to keep them afloat. She told him about harvest festivals, about running barefoot through fields as a child, about winters when they nearly starved but survived anyway.
Adrian listened, rapt. Her life was harsh, but there was vitality in it that his world had long extinguished. Every story she told painted her in colors richer than any silk dress Bianca ever wore.
When she asked about his life, he faltered. What could he say? That he was a pawn in his parents' empire? That every meal was plated like art but tasted like ash? That his future had already been sold, along with his heart, to a woman he didn't love?
He chose his words carefully. "It's… complicated. People expect me to be someone I'm not. To do things I don't believe in. Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating in a golden cage."
Elara's gaze lingered on him. "Then why don't you leave?"
"Because cages aren't always locked. Sometimes you're the one holding the bars shut, too afraid of what's outside."
Her eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, the world between them shrank to the width of the stream.
The night deepened. Elara eventually rose, brushing dirt from her skirt. "It's late. I should go."
Adrian stood too. "Will I see you again?"
She hesitated, lantern swinging at her side. "Depends. Are you planning to keep sneaking around like a thief?"
"Only if that's what it takes."
Her lips twitched into something close to a smile. "We'll see."
And then she was gone, fading into the shadows of the path, leaving Adrian with the stars and a heart pounding too fast.
The next nights became a rhythm neither spoke of aloud. Adrian slipped from the estate after dark, following the dirt road to the stream, to the fields, to wherever Elara might be waiting. Sometimes they talked for hours. Sometimes they sat in silence, sharing the night.
One evening, she brought bread she had baked with her mother; he swore it was better than anything served in the Cole dining hall. Another night, he told her about books he loved, quoting lines under the stars. She laughed at his dramatic recitations, but her eyes glowed with quiet warmth.
Suspense wove itself into their encounters. Every glance over Adrian's shoulder reminded him of the risk—if his parents knew, if the villagers guessed, everything would collapse. Yet the danger only sharpened his need to see her again.
One night, as they walked along the stream, their hands brushed. Neither pulled away. The contact was brief, accidental, but electric.
Adrian's chest ached with a truth he couldn't yet speak: he was falling for her.
The moment that cemented it came on a night when clouds covered the stars and the air smelled of rain. They sheltered beneath an old oak tree, lightning flickering in the distance.
Elara shivered as wind whipped through the branches. Adrian shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
"You'll freeze," she protested.
"I'll survive," he murmured.
For the first time, her guard slipped. She looked at him—not with suspicion, not with wariness, but with something rawer. Vulnerability.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
"What?"
"Coming here. Talking to me. You don't belong in my world, Adrian. And I'll never belong in yours."
He reached for her hand, tentative but steady. "Maybe I don't want either world. Maybe I just want this."
Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, the storm around them fell away, leaving only the storm inside.
Then she pulled her hand back, eyes shuttering. "Be careful what you want. Some wants can destroy you."
The words lingered long after she left him under the oak.
That night, Adrian returned to the estate drenched in rain, heart heavy but alive in a way it had never been before. He wrote in his journal again, the ink smudging under his restless hand:
I am drawn to her like the tide to the moon. But she is right—our worlds are fire and water. If they collide, something will burn. And yet… I can't stop. I won't stop.
The suspense coiled tighter with every encounter, every stolen glance, every brush of hands in the dark. Neither admitted it aloud, but both knew: they were standing on the edge of something vast and dangerous.
And the stars above bore silent witness to the first sparks of a love their worlds would never allow.