Spellbound by a Moonlit Heir

The wind howled gently through the pine trees surrounding the old cliffside pavilion, a forgotten structure carved into the mountain's edge overlooking the sweeping valley below. Moonlight spilled over the stone floor, illuminating the three men standing there.

Caveen leaned against the stone railing, a flask in hand, untouched.

Carlos sat cross-legged on a crumbling bench, flicking pebbles into the abyss.

Alaric stood still, arms crossed behind his back, the ever-watchful sentinel.

"She's in my bones," Caveen muttered. "And I hate it."

Carlos gave a slow sigh. "Here we go again…"

"No," Caveen said, eyes never leaving the stars. "You don't get it. Every time I see her, it's like the universe is laughing at me. After all these years, after betrayal, after pain—my heart still beats for her. It's pathetic."

Alaric didn't interrupt. He waited.

Caveen's voice cracked slightly as he went on, "When she hid Elara from me—I wanted to destroy something. No, everything. And yet… when she looks at me, I can't even keep my anger straight."

He turned, facing them. "Do you know what kind of madness it is? To spend nights in her room—where we say nothing, do nothing but lose ourselves in each other—and by morning we're strangers again."

Carlos looked up, frowning. "You've been… doing that?"

Caveen gave a bitter chuckle. "For weeks. And I swore I'd never let her close again."

Alaric stepped closer, his voice low. "Then why let her?"

"Because I couldn't help it," Caveen snapped. "I wanted to punish her. I told myself that. But truth is… I wanted to feel something that wasn't rage. I wanted to remember what it was like before everything went to hell."

Carlos stood, his expression softening. "And Madelline? You two were married, weren't you?"

Caveen gave a short nod. "Barely two months. I didn't touch her. Not once. I couldn't. She deserved better than a husband who dreams of another woman every night."

He turned away again, clutching the railing as if it anchored him.

"I hate Lysandra," he whispered. "I hate that I love her still. I hate that no matter what she did, no matter how she hurt me—I can't forget her. I tried to. Gods, I tried."

The silence was deafening under the moonlight.

Then Alaric's voice came—quiet, steady. "Then stop pretending."

Caveen looked at him.

"Stop punishing her. Stop punishing yourself. If you love her, fight. If you can't forgive her, let her go. But don't linger in this limbo. It'll tear both of you apart."

Carlos nodded. "You two are dragging each other through fire, hoping the other gets burned first."

Caveen exhaled slowly, the air heavy in his lungs. "She's still in love with me. I know it. She won't say it—but I see it in her eyes when I leave in the morning."

Carlos glanced at the stars. "So… are you going back to her chamber tonight?"

Caveen didn't answer. He just stared at the flask in his hand—then threw it into the valley below.

Lysandra's chamber.

The candle beside her flickered low, its wax pooling like melted time. Lysandra sat in silence, brushing her fingers along the rim of the untouched tea cup. Night after night, she waited. Every time he came, without a word, without a promise—just raw heat and cold departures.

But tonight… there was no knock.

Her hand tightened.

He wasn't coming.

She stood, pacing to the mirror, seeing the ghost of herself: a powerful witch, a mother, a survivor—yet somehow still a girl foolish enough to wait for the man who burned her soul and warmed her heart in the same breath.

She clenched her fists.

She could handle being hated.

But ignored?

No.

That, she could not.

Morning Came.

The sharp clack of Lysandra's boots echoed through the halls like war drums. Her cloak trailed behind her like a black storm, and her magic crackled faintly with her fury. The guards parted before her without a word.

She barged into the council hall, where Alaric and Carlos were quietly reviewing border reports.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

Carlos looked up, startled. "Who—"

"Caveen." Her voice was ice. "Where. Is. He."

The silence that followed made her stomach drop.

Alaric sighed, setting his papers down. "He left. Last night."

Lysandra's fists clenched. "And neither of you thought to tell me?"

Carlos stood slowly. "You were asleep. We didn't want to disturb—"

"Don't you dare make excuses," she hissed. "You knew I would've wanted to speak to him. You knew!"

"He didn't want to wake you," Alaric said, voice calm but firm. "He said… he needed time."

Lysandra's rage erupted. "So he runs—again—and you just let him go? After everything?! After what we've been through?"

Her voice cracked as power surged in the air around her. Scrolls flew off the shelves, the chandelier trembled, and her eyes glowed with unshed tears.

Carlos moved closer, gently placing a hand on her arm. "Lys, please. You're not angry at us. You're hurt."

"I am angry at you!" she shouted, shoving his hand away. "You're my brothers—you were supposed to be on my side!"

Alaric stepped forward now, steady as a mountain. "We are. But you're not the only one hurting, Lysandra."

Her lips trembled.

"Every day, I swallow the urge to destroy the world for the way he treated me," she whispered. "But I still… I still love him."

The room quieted.

She sank to the floor beside the war table, covering her face with shaking hands. Her voice dropped to a broken whisper.

"I hate him for what he did to me… for leaving me to raise our child alone… for punishing me with his silence, then torturing me with his touch. But gods help me… I still love him."

Carlos knelt beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Alaric said nothing, but his gaze softened. The mighty Prince of Ravenshade looked down at his sister not as a warrior—but as a woman broken by love.

"You don't have to carry this alone," Carlos whispered.

"I already am," Lysandra said. "Every time he leaves, he takes a piece of me with him. And I'm scared one day, there won't be anything left."

The hall was still—only her quiet sobs filled the cold morning air.