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Sometimes loving someone else is so painful that you feel like you cannot breathe.

Just looking at them and knowing that they are yours and you are theirs is the most beautiful feeling in the world.

But when you do not know how they feel, it is suffocating.

All you want is to confess your love, to feel their skin against yours and yet, the fear of their rejection is like a blade piercing through your heart. Love is torturous.

But what would we be without it?

Tabitha Wysteria

The Grand Hall shimmered with golden candlelight, the air heavy with unspoken tension as nobles and emissaries gathered in expectant silence.

Ash had spent the morning in the training yards, hammering steel against steel, pushing his body to exhaustion in the futile hope that sweat and muscle might drown out the turmoil in his mind. It hadn’t worked.

He had asked for Alina, desperation laced in his voice, but the servants had only shaken their heads.

No one had seen her. Instead, a folded parchment had been pressed into his palm that morning—her handwriting, elegant and steady, the words he could never form himself laid out in ink.

She had stayed up late, writing by candlelight, crafting the speech his tongue refused to give him.

Tomorrow, he would ride out to the borders. The whispers of witches had grown louder, slithering through the kingdom like a slow-building storm. Ash would see for himself if the warnings were true.

He exhaled sharply, turning to the mirror.

The suit he wore—a ceremonial drapery of gold and red—felt suffocating, a gaudy prison of frilled sleeves and stiff collars.

He longed for the weight of his armour, the cold bite of steel against his skin.

How did Alina endure such impractical finery every day?

‘Stop twitching.’ Hagan’s voice was edged with mild irritation as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His gaze roamed around the empty chamber before settling back on Ash, a frown pulling at his lips. ‘Is your wife not here to accompany you downstairs?’

Ash ignored the question, though he felt the weight of it settle in his chest.

He had made sure to be gone before Mal awoke.

He had left while the sky was still painted in shades of orange and silver, before the world had stirred, before he could catch a glimpse of her at the breakfast table, sitting in her nightgown, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, sleep-soft and wild.

He had fled before she could ask him questions with that quiet curiosity, before he could give in to the aching pull in his chest that begged him to lift her into his arms and carry her back to bed.

‘It is time,’ Hagan said, his voice a command rather than a suggestion.

Ash forced his feet forward, his boots striking against the stone with a steady rhythm as he descended into the Hall.

The moment he entered, every pair of eyes lifted to him. The air thickened, anticipation curling through the room like rising smoke. Instinctively, Ash squared his shoulders, straightened his spine—a soldier’s reflex, a warrior’s armour. He would not falter. Not here. Not in front of them.

As he moved through the parted crowd, his gaze found Mal. She was standing off to the side, her purple eyes trained solely on him, unwavering. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.

He took his place at the centre of the dais, turned to face the sea of watching faces.

A glimmer of movement in the crowd caught his eye—Zahian Noor, smirking as if he had been promised a spectacle.

Ash clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to break the prince’s nose a second time.

But Zahian was nothing, insignificant compared to the absence that gnawed at him.

Where was Alina?

The room fell silent.

A bead of sweat traced a slow path down Ash’s temple, and he wiped it away. The faces before him blurred into an indistinct mass. His fingers clenched behind his back, nails digging into his palm. The words, where were the words?

His mind turned to stone.

The parchment in his pocket burnt against his skin, but he could not remember the first line. The script Alina had written for him, the lifeline she had given him—it was gone, slipping like sand through his fingers.

His mouth went dry. His chest tightened.

And then the fear took hold.

What if they laughed? What if they saw?

His hands trembled. He curled them tighter behind him, willing the shaking to stop. Why couldn’t he do this? Why did his own body betray him in ways no enemy ever could?

His heart pounded.

Breathe. Just breathe .

He opened his mouth, tried to force the words out. He would be a mockery of a prince if he couldn’t give a simple speech. Unworthy .

‘Today… I c-come t-to y-you all…’ The moment the first stammer cracked through the air, he knew. He knew.

A ripple passed through the crowd. A shifting. A stirring. They had heard. They had noticed.

His failure was on display.

What would his men think? Would they still follow him? Would they still trust him to lead? Would his people still want a king who could not even speak?

His throat closed, his muscles locked in place. He could not breathe, could not move, could not—

A hand slipped into his.

Steady. Unshaken.

Ash turned his head, breath hitching as Mal stood beside him.

She squeezed his trembling fingers, grounding him. A silent vow. A quiet shield. A lifeline.

‘We have gathered together today to ask for forgiveness,’ Mal announced, her voice smooth as silk, unfaltering.

‘My husband is the Fire Prince, and his temperament is sometimes as you all know, a strong twirl of flames. But he is so very sorry for his actions.’ She turned to Zahian, offering a smile that was neither warm nor cold, merely calculated.

‘He welcomes prince Zahian Noor with open arms and congratulates the couple.’

The room erupted into applause, their cheers rolling through the hall like a breaking tide.

Zahian ascended the dais and extended a hand. His lips curved with amusement.

‘All is forgiven, brother.’

The way he said it made Ash want to break something. But his body remained frozen, a statue of cold, unyielding stone.

Mal, sensing his stillness, gripped his arm and pulled him away from Zahian and the crowd.

‘My husband is tired. He must rest.’ The lie was blatant, but no one challenged it. They nodded, murmuring amongst themselves, already eager to whisper behind his back.

Ash did not care.

Because as Mal led him from the Hall, her hand was still holding his.

Mal guided him back to their chamber, closing the door behind them with a quiet finality.

She lingered there for a moment, her back pressed against the wood, arms wrapped around herself as if seeking warmth from something unseen.

Ash did not turn to face her. He could not bear to see the purple eyes that had witnessed his undoing.

He imagined her gaze sharp with judgment, her lips curled in amusement at his failure.

Perhaps she would laugh. Perhaps she would hate him—hate that she had been bound to a prince who trembled before a crowd, a man unworthy of his crown.

He strode to the balcony, bracing himself against the stone railing, drawing in the salt-laced wind with deep, ragged breaths.

The sea stretched endlessly before him, dark and restless beneath the glow of the midday sun.

He closed his eyes, willing the air to cool the firestorm inside his chest. But then he heard her footsteps, light and unhurried, as she came to stand beside him.

Mal leaned against the balustrade, her hair spilling forward like ink, veiling half her face. She looked like a creature of the night itself, woven from shadow and whispered myths, untouched by fear.

‘My father kept me caged within stone walls for most of my life,’ Mal said, her voice quiet but unwavering.

‘I was a happy child, but my happiness was confined—trapped within the castle's towering gates, hidden from the eyes of the world. Too many wished to lay their gaze upon the princess with the witch’s eyes.

Some would fall to their knees in trembling reverence, whispering prayers of dread, claiming I was a god sent to punish them all.

Others would spit at the very mention of me, their curses carried by the wind.

‘So they concealed me, tucked me away from the prying eyes of the world, as though hiding me would change what I was. But secrets have a way of slipping through cracks, and the world always knew. They whispered of the girl with cursed eyes, of the omen born within the House of Shadows.’

She exhaled, steadying herself. ‘A part of me feared stepping beyond those walls, feared the weight of the stares, the judgment that would come—not for my actions, nor my words, but for the simple existence of my eyes. I told myself it did not matter, that I was indifferent to the hushed voices and sidelong glances. But deep inside, the thought of being cast aside, of being seen as something unworthy, something unholy, for a thing I could not change…’ Her voice trailed, her breath a whisper of uncertainty before she straightened her spine.

‘But I learnt that fear is nothing but a specter of the mind. And I realised that I am stronger than the smallness of their scorn. Stronger than their trembling voices, their wary glances. Yes, they watched, they whispered—but their fear is not mine to carry. It is nothing I cannot bear.’

His body, rigid with shame, slowly uncoiled as the sound of her voice wove through the air like a balm against his fraying nerves.

He turned slightly, studying the princess who gazed at the horizon as if nothing in the world could touch her.

She spoke as if she had already conquered the fears that still gripped him.

‘You might discover, Fire Prince, that what you fear is not as scary as you’ve imagined.’ She then turned to look at him, holding his gaze. ‘Or perhaps it is. But you are stronger.’