Loves Fire
I remember the first time I saw him.
It was late summer, the sun slanting golden through the castle’s western gardens. I was a princess then, the world still full of possibilities and secrets. My father’s court was bustling with dignitaries and counselors, the air thick with the scent of politics and roses.
He was the son of Lord Hastings—a man my father trusted with the kingdom’s most delicate matters. Hastings’ lands bordered those of Lord Aldric’s family, though the two men rarely saw eye to eye.
I knew his name long before I met him. I’d heard the soldiers speak of him in hushed tones—how he was quick with a blade, quicker with his wit. He’d been away at the borders, fighting the kingdom’s enemies even before he came of age.
He wasn’t a prince. He wasn’t of royal blood. But when he stepped from his father’s shadow into the sunlight of that garden, every rose seemed to turn its face to him.
He was taller than I’d imagined, his red hair tousled by the wind, his eyes the color of autumn storms—steady, watchful, and warm. He carried himself like a man who had fought for every inch of respect he’d ever earned.
“Your Highness,” he greeted me, his voice roughened by the dust of the road. He bowed low, but there was a spark in his gaze—something that made my heart catch.