He stalked her discreetly in the days that followed, learning she had been sent here to escape court whispers. Obsessed yet respectful, he waited for the perfect moment. It came one golden afternoon in a sun-dappled meadow where she gathered herbs alone, guards distant. He approached, heart hammering. "Forgive my boldness," he said, words flowing unbidden for the first time in this life, "but your presence calls like a siren's song across a storm-tossed sea."
She turned, startled but intrigued, her melodic voice like a lute in the wind. Their first conversation stretched for hours, books, stars, life's fleeting joys. Elias poured out veiled stories from his past lives; nomadic loves beneath endless skies, scholarly voyages across turquoise waves, warrior regrets in blood-soaked fields. "Once," he said softly, eyes distant with pain, "a man lost his beloved to the cold because he feared warmth itself. He held her frozen body and wondered, too late, what children their laughter might have filled a home with." Isolde listened, enchanted, her hand brushing his sleeve in innocent comfort. Her laughter rang like silver bells, and for the first time he felt the unnamed feeling not as a curse, but as a fragile, sacred flame.
They grew inseparable in secret. Hidden groves became their sanctuary, reading poetry by babbling streams, verses of longing souls that predated Goethe; chatting beneath ancient oaks about philosophy and dreams; flirting with words alone. "Your eyes hold the universe's secrets," he would murmur, voice thick with emotion. She would blush, replying, "And yours reflect storms I have yet to weather, but I would face them gladly at your side." One crimson sunset their hands brushed, then clasped. Not lust's fire, but love's pure, soul-deep warmth, an intimacy that defied words. Isolde leaned on him emotionally, sharing the burdens of court jealousy; Elias found solace in her presence, the ache of Borte's death easing for the first time.
Unbeknownst to him, Isolde was hunted. Her jealous half-sister, envious of her beauty, rebellious spirit, sparking eyes, and the rare reddish hair that marked her as "other," had secretly accused her of witchcraft in a letter to the Holy Empire. Her father, fearing the stake, had sent her far with trusted guards to this quiet corner where hunts were rare.
But fate's cruelty was absolute.
A letter arrived at Elias's humble house; "Your mother is gravely ill and wishes to see you. Return at once." His heart sank like a stone. He bid Isolde farewell in a tearful embrace beneath the same oak where they had first spoken. "I will return soon, my love," he promised, kissing her forehead with trembling lips. He mounted a horse for the three-day ride.
At the castle he found his mother perfectly hale, merely fatigued. The summons had been a ruse by his worried family to recall him after months away. Shock rippled through them; Elias, once a ghost, now vibrant, smiling, speaking animatedly of "a light in the darkness." "You've changed, son," Friedrich marveled, eyes misty. Elias pleaded to leave immediately, but they insisted; "Stay a few days, we have missed your spirit." Reluctantly he agreed, sharing meals and stories, his family's joy a temporary balm even as his heart yearned for Isolde.
Three days later he rode back, arriving on the tenth day since departure.
Horror awaited.