Epilogue #4
“The level doesn’t matter,” I cut him off, my voice firm, my heart finding its truth. “Feelings do.”
We spent the afternoon under the oak, our conversation a river of dreams and secrets, our laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant call of the stream.
We spoke of childhood adventures, of his love for open plains, of my longing for a life unbound by duty, our words weaving a shared vision, a future where we could be just Anna and Allen, free.
As the sun dipped low, casting the meadow in amber and rose, Allen stood, offering his hand, his smile shy but bold.
“Care to dance?” he asked, his voice a quiet challenge, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
No music played, only the chirp of birds and the soft murmur of the stream, but we swayed on the grass, his hands warm at my waist, our steps a quiet rhythm that felt ancient, eternal. His touch was a tether, not to duty, but to joy, a promise of a love that was beginning to understand.
In that moment, I knew—this was love, the kind I’d dreamed of, the pull of a soul to its match, a spark that set my world ablaze.
For weeks, we stole moments together, meeting in the quiet corners of the stables, in hidden nooks of garden nooks shielded by roses, or beneath that ancient oak, our meadow a sanctuary.
Allen’s stories captivated me—tales of distant lands, of horses whispering secrets, of stars he’d watched in fields far from here.
His accidental brush of my hand sparked currents, our glances ignited the air, our bond deepening with each shared secret, a flame growing brighter, fiercer.
My wolf purred, her presence a quiet contentment, her joy a mirror of mine, a testament to the truth of our fated mates connection.
But one evening, he was gone.
I arrived at the stables, my heart light with anticipation, expecting his smile, his warm voice, but found only Old Tom, the stable master, sweeping the aisle, his face creased with confusion.
“Your Highness, I’ve been working here for thirty years, and there’s never been an Allen as the head steward.
The current head steward is still Old John, and as far as I know, he doesn’t have any sons. ”
My world tilted, a cold dread pooling in my chest, my breath catching. “You’re sure?” I pressed, my voice shaking, desperation clawing at me. “chestnut hair, dark eyes, about my age, tall, said he was the new head groom?”
Tom shook his head, his expression kind but firm. “I’ve worked here thirty years, Princess. Ain’t no Allen ever been here.”
Panic clawed at me, and I searched the palace, questioning every servant, every guard, but no one knew an Allen.
The stables, the gardens, the meadow—empty, silent, as if he’d never existed.
The only proof was a dried wildflower, plucked during our first meeting, pressed in my keepsake box, its brittle petals a fragile anchor to a memory that felt like a dream.
That night, I sat in my room, clutching the flower, staring at my hollow reflection in the mirror, my eyes shadowed, my face pale.
“Maybe it was all a dream,” I whispered, my wolf’s mournful howl echoing within, her grief a mirror of mine, her loss a wound that bled with every breath.
The days blurred into a fog of pain and doubt, Allen’s absence a void that consumed me.
His face haunted my thoughts, his voice a whisper in my dreams, my heart aching with every beat.
I wandered to the stables, hoping against hope for a glimpse of him, only to face empty stalls and pitying glances from the grooms. My memories—of his warm smile, his gentle voice, our dance under the oak—felt vivid, yet I questioned their truth.
Had I conjured him, a fantasy born of my longing for a love like my parents’? Was my wolf’s bond a delusion, my heart betraying me?
“Anna, you’re not eating,” Mother said at dinner, her eyes worried as she studied my untouched plate, her hand reaching for mine across the table.
“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing a smile, though food tasted like ash, my stomach knotted with grief, each bite a reminder of the picnic we’d shared, his laughter a ghost in my mind.
Nights were the hardest, my thoughts a relentless spiral of questions.
Why did he leave? Was he real? If so, why did no one remember him?
If not, how could a dream feel so true, my wolf’s bond so fierce, her howl so raw?
She paced within, her growls a restless ache, her confusion amplifying mine, our shared loss a weight that crushed my spirit.
I threw myself into my duties, attending councils, greeting nobles, my movements mechanical, my smiles hollow.
“Your Highness, you seem to be in a bad mood?” a minister asked cautiously.
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice flat, a lie that fooled no one, my heart a barren field where hope had withered.
I avoided the places tied to Allen—the rose garden where we’d met, the stables where he’d brushed the horses, the meadow path to our oak—each a dagger to my heart, their beauty tainted by loss.
Yet his laugh haunted me, his silhouette flickering in corners, only to vanish when I turned, a cruel trick of my mind.
“Am I losing my mind?” I whispered to my reflection, my face gaunt, my eyes shadowed, the girl in the mirror a stranger, broken by a love that might never have been.
Doubt poisoned my heart, eroding my faith in love.
Was the soul-shaking rush I’d felt real, or a childish fantasy?
Was my destiny a steady, unfeeling bond like the one I had with Raymond, a marriage of duty rather than passion?
I withdrew, my silence a shield, dodging my parents’ gentle probes, brushing off the maids’ attempts to lift my spirits with forced smiles and curt replies.
“If Allen was real, why abandon me?” I murmured in the dark, guilt gnawing at my core. “Was I not enough? Did I drive him away?”
Raymond noticed my change—my silence, my vacant stares, the light gone from my eyes.
One afternoon, he found me in the garden pavilion, his face grave, his hands clasped tightly, as if bracing for a blow.
“Anna, I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice low, his blue eyes searching mine with a quiet intensity.
We sat, the air heavy with unspoken truths, the pavilion’s lattice casting dappled shadows across his face.
“Anna, I’ve loved you since we were children,” he said, his voice raw, his words spilling like a confession.
“I know you’re hurting, I see it every day, but I’ll always be here, through anything.
Marry me, and I promise to make you happy, to give you a life of joy. ”
His eyes held such sincerity, a pure, unwavering affection that twisted guilt in my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
He deserved a love as deep as his own, not the half-hearted affection I could offer.
“Raymond,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the ache, “you’re my dearest friend, like a brother to me.
But love—that heart-pounding, soul-deep feeling—I don’t have it for you. I never will.”
His face paled, a flicker of pain crossing his features, but he nodded, his jaw tight, his composure holding. “Is it someone else?” he asked, his voice quiet, searching. “Someone who changed you, who broke your heart?”
I laughed, a bitter sound that startled even me, my eyes stinging. “Maybe he never existed,” I said, my voice cracking. “Maybe I’m just dreaming, chasing a ghost.”
“Anna,” he said, squeezing my hand, his touch warm but heavy, “my feelings won’t change. If you ever reconsider, if you need me—”
“Don’t wait for me,” I interrupted, my voice firm, a plea for his freedom as much as mine. “Find someone who loves you with their whole heart, Raymond. You deserve that, more than anything.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded, a sad smile curving his lips, and left me to the silence of the pavilion, my heart both lighter and heavier, the weight of his kindness a burden I hadn’t meant to carry.
Three months later, the Kingdom of Valder in the East sent an envoy to propose a marriage alliance. It’s said that their prince wished to marry me to strengthen trade relations between our two nations.
Father summoned me to his study, his expression measured, his fingers tracing the edges of a parchment bearing Valder’s seal. “Valder is a formidable ally,” he said, his voice calm but deliberate. “This match would secure our eastern borders and open new markets, a boon for our people.”
“What is their prince’s name?” I asked casually.
“Alexander Valder,” my father replied, flipping through some documents. “He’s said to be a very accomplished young man.”
I nodded, my movements mechanical, my spirit hollow. “If you think it’s best, Father, I’ll meet him,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of hope.
Father’s eyes narrowed, concern etching his brow, his hand pausing over the papers. “Anna, are you sure?” he asked, his voice soft, searching. “If you’re not ready, your mother and I—we’d never force you.”
“I’m fine, Father,” I said, cutting him off, my tone clipped, a lie that tasted bitter. If Allen was a mirage, if love was a cruel illusion, what did it matter who I married? A prince, a pauper—my heart was already broken, my dreams dust.
The meeting was arranged for a month later, and I prepared with the precision of an automaton—selecting gowns, studying Valder’s customs and history, memorizing their court protocols.
My actions were rote, my heart a barren field, untouched by anticipation or fear, my wolf silent, her spirit dimmed by our shared loss.
Then the day arrived, and I stood in the great hall, my silver gown a cold weight against my skin, my expression schooled into neutrality, a mask to hide the emptiness within. The herald’s voice echoed, resonant and formal, announcing the guest whose name I barely registered.
“Prince Alexander of Valder!”