The Boy and the Brook
The brook shimmered under the afternoon sun, curling through the emerald glade like silver ribbon. Mirelle's feet splashed in the shallows, her laughter soft and quick, like wind-chimes in spring. She was only five—barely a wisp of a thing—but already fearless, her tangled hair clinging to her cheeks and her eyes full of sunlight.
"Stay close to the edge," Kaelith warned, standing tall among the reeds like a knight in waiting. He was nine—older, stronger, and always so serious, like he already carried a crown no one could see.
She grinned up at him, teeth small and crooked. "I'm not scared."
He rolled his eyes, but his hand never strayed too far. Always near. Always ready.
That was the thing about Kaelith. Even then, before the wars, before the throne, before the hunger—he had always been hers, in all the quiet ways no one noticed.
And she had loved him—just a little. Just enough to make the ache linger.
Neither of them knew that this would be the last day they'd be allowed to play by the brook. The last day before bloodlines became borders. Before royal law dragged him away.
Before fate began its slow, cruel burn.