"History only remembers kings. But I—I will remember the wildflower that bloomed in my war-torn heart."
Velundor, 14th Century
The kingdom of Velundor was carved between mountains and forests, its skies always smeared with gold dust as if the gods had brushed them with their own hands. Its towers rose tall, whispering the glory of war and the weight of tradition. No man dared disobey its laws. No woman rose beyond her station.
Except one.
Lyra.
She had the eyes of the stormy monsoon and the laughter of river-songs. A peasant girl from the village of Ithrien, she gathered wild herbs and flowers for a living, barefoot and wind-kissed. To most, she was invisible. But not to him.
Not to Kael of House Alarion, the King of Velundor.
He first saw her not on a throne, but in disguise—draped in a traveler's cloak, roaming the market under the pretense of humility. He came often, escaping the suffocating walls of royal protocol. That day, fate played its first note.
He accidentally bumped into a flower basket and crushed half of it.
"Watch where you're going, you blind ox!" Lyra shouted, hands on hips, glaring up at him.
Kael froze. No one had ever spoken to him like that.
She didn't bow. Didn't care. He smiled.
The next day, he returned. This time with a gold coin and a question: "What's the name of the flower you wear behind your ear?"
"Why? Going to write me a poem, traveler?" she mocked.
He did, actually. That night.
Days Turned to Weeks
Kael visited Ithrien secretly, hidden under moonlight, speaking to Lyra beneath the willow tree at the edge of her village. She told him of her dreams—of leaving the village, seeing the oceans, and never marrying a man who wanted to 'own' her. He told her stories too—but not the ones about war.
Instead, he told her about the stars. About how lonely a palace felt, and how kings were often prisoners in golden cages.
One evening, the dam broke.
They kissed.
Not like royalty and subject.
Like souls that had met long before names or skin.
From that night onward, their love became a secret rebellion. Every touch, every whisper, every meeting stolen from the jaws of fate.
But love is dangerous in kingdoms ruled by power and pride.
The Betrayal
Kael's sudden absences didn't go unnoticed. His royal advisor Lord Vareth began to spy. One moonless night, Kael's secret was revealed.
The High Council summoned him.
"You shame the bloodline," Lord Vareth spat. "You threaten the throne for a peasant's legs?"
Kael rose, sword drawn. "Say another word about her—"
They didn't punish Kael.They punished her.
The Fire at Ithrien
A decree was passed in secret. The village of Ithrien, accused of harboring rebels, was ordered to be cleansed. The King's Guard, twisted by Vareth's manipulation, torched homes as people screamed. Lyra was dragged from her hut, beaten, tied to a stake in the square.
She waited for him. For Kael.
But he came too late.
Her last words, screamed into the fire:
"Kael! I'm not afraid—find me again!"
Blood for Flame
The King lost his mind.
Velundor burned not once, but twice.
He executed his own council. Ripped Vareth's head off with his bare hands. The capital bled red. But in his rage, he was ambushed.
A blade slid through his chest from behind.
As he died on the palace steps, he saw her in his mind—standing beneath the willow, alive, waiting.
"Wait for me," he whispered to the sky."Even if it takes eternity."