LIROIDS

Eyela’s POV.

The kingdom of Cellon was alive with song that morning, the golden fields swaying as though they too joined the celebration. I stood at the castle gates with my father, John, and tried not to bounce on my toes like a child. The harvest festival was my favorite day of the year, not only because of the food and the laughter, but because it was the one time the whole kingdom gathered as one, offering thanks to the goddess Ciria for her gift of a bountiful harvest.

My dark hair shone in the pale dawn light, a contrast to my father’s stern, cold profile. His arms were folded tight across his chest, his blue eyes, so like my own, fixed on the closed gates. My mother, Rose, lingered behind, chatting animatedly with a friend she had not seen in months.

“Your mother might speak with every soul in Cellon before we reach the courtyard,” Father muttered. His voice was sharp, his patience worn thin like ice.

I tried to soothe him. “Be patient, Father. She won’t be long.”

But I knew she would be. Mother loved people as much as Father seemed to dislike them. Her laughter carried across the crowd, light and warm, while Father’s scowl deepened. At last, breathless and apologetic, she hurried back to us.

“I am sorry I’m late, dear. Mrs. Wallaby really is a chatterbox,” she said with a rueful smile.

Father grumbled something under his breath, but before he could scold her further, the gates creaked open and the people surged forward like a river breaking through its dam. I was swept along with them, my heart hammering.

The castle rose above us like something out of legend. White walls stretched high, draped with flowering vines that spilled purple and gold blossoms into the morning sun. For a moment, I forgot to breathe. I had been here once as a child, but I had never noticed the way the stones seemed to hum with age, as if they remembered centuries of voices before mine.

We gathered in the grand courtyard. I craned my neck as the king stepped onto the balcony, his robe heavy with jewels, his crown flashing with firelight. Nobles flanked him, their faces proud and cold. In his hand, he carried a torch. He lowered it into a basket filled with dried crops, and the fire leapt skyward in a rush of smoke. The scent of burning wheat filled the air, and the people erupted into cheers.

Mother clasped her hands and bowed her head. Father stared straight ahead, solemn. But my curiosity burned hotter than the flames. I tugged at Mother’s sleeve.

“Why do we sacrifice to the goddess?” I whispered.

“So she may bless our land and our people,” she murmured.

“But has anyone ever seen her?” I asked, tilting my head.

Mother’s lips pressed together. “No one alive has looked upon a god.”

Before I could ask more, Father cut me off. His gaze was sharp as flint. “Do not speak too freely of Ciria. The goddess is not fond of mortal tongues daring to shape her name.”

His warning only fanned my curiosity. Why worship a being we were forbidden even to question? I bit my tongue, but rebellion stirred in my chest. I wanted to know more about gods, about the world beyond our farm, about everything Father refused to speak of.

When the ceremony ended, we returned home. Tradition demanded that food be shared with friends, and I carried a basket of roasted meats and bread to my childhood friend Seyal. His modest house stood at the edge of the fields, and I found him waiting on the steps as though he had known I would come.

“You nearly spilled everything running here,” he teased, taking the basket from my hands.

“I didn’t want the food to grow cold,” I said, breathless.

He smiled, softer this time, and silence stretched between us like a thread drawn taut. His brown eyes lingered on me, warm and steady, and suddenly the world around us faded. My cheeks burned beneath his gaze.

We sat together, laughing and talking until the sky turned the colour of honey. Then Seyal’s laughter faltered. He looked at me as though gathering courage, his hands twisting together.

“Eyela,” he said, his voice rough, “when we come of age… would you marry me?”

The world seemed to stop.

My heart soared, and tears blurred my vision. All the words I might have spoken scattered like birds, leaving only the truth trembling on my lips. “Yes… Seyal,” I whispered. “A thousand times, yes.”

He pulled me into his arms, and I pressed my face against his shoulder, trying to memorize the moment, the warmth of him, the strength in his embrace, the joy that made my chest ache. Under the painted sky, we promised ourselves to each other, certain that our love would shield us from every cruelty the world could summon.

But love, I would soon learn, is no armor but just a dream I would quickly be forced to wake from.

When I returned home that evening, joy still blazing in my heart, I found a carriage waiting at our door. Its dark wood gleamed, its wheels trimmed with silver. My smile faltered. Inside sat Lord Glen, a wealthy nobleman with eyes that lingered too long, a smile that chilled me to the bone.

My parents greeted him warmly, as if he were a family member. I stood frozen in the doorway, my pulse pounding in my ears.

“Lord Glen has asked for your hand, my dear,” Mother said softly, almost proudly. Her words shattered me.

I stared at her, at Father, at the man who looked at me as though I were already his. And in that moment, I understood: my love, my freedom, my very life would be bartered like coin on the table.

“No,” I refuse to be a bargaining chip to keep this godforsaken farm alive for the prize of my innocence.

Father stood to reach me, but mother intercepted him before he could do anything further.

“That is as far as you can go, husband,” she retorted

I could not believe my eyes; my own father would try to lay his hand on me for the price of wealth. Just then, I realised the human heart was truly evil.

“Dear child?” My mother held me in her embrace as though I were a suckling child. “I shall speak to your father to find another way out of this.”

Taking her words to heart, I went to bed that night with a ray of hope in my heart.

But the world I thought I knew began to unravel, thread by thread, until only a terrible truth remained: destiny, cruel as it was wondrous, had only just begun its game.