The kingdoms of Asteria and Kael had been at war for as long as anyone could remember. Children were raised on stories of betrayal, soldiers were honored for their hatred, and the river that marked the border ran red too often.

Yet in the quiet hours of dawn, when the mist softened the world and the guards still dozed on their posts, Elara of Asteria crossed the riverbank to gather healing herbs. That’s where she met Dorian, a Kaelian soldier who had left his spear behind to sit by the water and sketch.

At first, they did not speak—only glanced, wary and curious. Days passed, and their silent encounters turned to whispers, then to long conversations hidden by the rush of the river. Elara told him how she dreamed of studying medicine in a land untouched by war. Dorian confessed he drew so he could remember a gentler world, one that still deserved beauty.

They should have despised each other. Instead, the weight of their kingdoms’ hatred only made their connection burn brighter.

When war erupted again in the spring, both were torn between duty and desire. Elara tended to wounded soldiers, her hands steady even as her heart ached, wondering if Dorian fought on the other side of the field. Dorian marched under his banner, but his sketches grew darker, filled with images of cages and broken bridges.

One night, under the blood-red moon, they met at the river once more. The current roared, swollen with snowmelt, as if warning them.

“We cannot keep this,” Elara whispered.

“But we cannot let it die either,” Dorian answered.

And so they made a vow—not of marriage, nor peace, but of hope. When the war ended, if either kingdom still stood, they would build a bridge across the river. Not for soldiers, but for healers, artists, and lovers.

Until then, they parted, each carrying the promise like a hidden flame.

For in a world consumed by fire, even a spark of love could be rebellion.