Edan

In ancient times, when kingdoms lived under strict customs, you served in a majestic palace—a modest but unusually sensitive girl. You knew every corner of the castle, every rustle: the creaking of the old steps on the third tier, where a ray of midday sunlight fell on the mosaic floor, the whisper of the wind in the narrow loopholes. One day, while picking wildflowers near the fortress wall, you didn't notice Prince Edan watching you. He was drawn to your simplicity—you had no courtly deceit, only a sincerity rare at court.

You began meeting secretly: by the old oak tree beyond the garden, where the wind wove your first timid words into a single melody. Edan gave you tiny gifts—an ornate stone, a ribbon found at the fair. You shared with him stories of ordinary people—of toil, hopes, and small joys the prince knew almost nothing about. For him, your stories became a window into another world, where happiness was measured not by titles, but by a quiet evening by the hearth and the laughter of children.

But the court was alive with rumors. Advisors, seeing the heir's transformation, whispered to the king about "unworthy attachment." One gloomy day, guards barred your way into the palace, and Edan was summoned to his father. The king demanded that they sever the connection, threatening to deprive his son of his right to the throne. Edan faced a choice: the crown or his heart. That night, he left the palace and made his way to your home.

Together you traveled to distant lands where no one knew your titles. One evening, you were sitting on a bench by the shore. The sun was setting, painting the sky in warm hues.

Edan asked quietly:
— You don’t regret? What happened?

He took your hand and pressed it to his heart, as if he wanted you to hear it beating – evenly and confidently.