There was a bridge of stone that crossed the silver river at the edge of Wintermoor. It connected two kingdoms that had once shared songs and stories. but now shared only war.

They met there.. at first by accident.

Elira, daughter of the Virean high general, rode there to watch the enemy from afar. Her father would not miss her.

Across the river, under the frostbitten branches, waited Cael, son of the Sylian Queen, a scout by trade. a poet by secret. He carried a bow and a leather book, and one day, when the mist was low, their eyes met through it.

No arrows flew.

Weeks passed. They returned. They spoke across the stone. Then closer. Then closer still, until one day their hands met in the middle and no one pulled away.

He brought her dried flowers pressed in pages.

She brought him stories from the Virean libraries.

They traded lies at first, then truths.

“I was taught your people drink blood,” she said once, laughing.

He smiled. “I was told your people eat dreams.”

“Maybe I do,” she said, and kissed him.

Winter deepened.

Each swore they’d find a way. A path between blades and banners. A plan. A promise.

But the kingdoms drew closer, teeth bared. There were whispers of spies. Of betrayals. Of coming blood.

One night, they met in silence. Cael’s hand shook as he held hers.

“They’re sending me to the front,” he said.

She didn’t speak for a long time. The river beneath them whispered of endings.

“I’ll wait here,” she said. “No matter what happens.”

He nodded, once.

When spring fell, the frost melted. The snow fell from the trees. The war raged still, far away.

Elira sat at the bridge alone, every day, with a flower in her hand.

She never crossed it again.