The strings of the lute snapped with a keening cry, as though the bard's very soul had rent asunder. Voices raised in mirth, songs of old, the whirl of dancers, and the clink of goblets melded into a single joyous clamor—a tapestry of revelry woven tight.

Liam's voice, warm as a hearthfire and deep as the roots of the Whispering Woods, soared about the carven pillars of the palace, a melody to rival the winds of fate. And how he yearned for it to drift, soft as a sigh, to tender ears.

A star fell through the twilight, a gleam I dared to chase, But the wind it turned to whispers, and stole her from my place.

Oh, weave me a tale of the skies unbound, A thread of light where the lost are found. Through glade and gale, I'll sing her name, A fleeting fire, a fading flame.

Gentle as the dawn's first blush, perilous as the fathomless sea—a pearl beyond price in the crown of Aeltharion. A hundred times had he sung her praises, his lute trembling with her name, and yet it was ever too little, a cup half-filled. And now... now these were his final lays for her. They would take her hence, to be another's bride. Never mine. Not even in the sweetest dream could she have been his own. Unattainable, radiant princess of the elven realm.

Liam's heart broke asunder, each breath drawn for a new verse a stab of anguish. If only I could claim thee as mine own, and be thine in turn...

Then came the ancient dance of the elves, a rite as old as the stars. Fair maidens spun in graceful arcs, petals of the Ancient Kindred Tree raining down like tears of the heavens. To the right emerged the royal kin of the neighboring realm—a silver-haired king, widowed and stern; his son, the thief of fate, tall and proud, his visage cold with arrogance; and his daughter, Zariel, dark of tress and bright as the sun, her gaze catching Liam's with a spark of mirth and something deeper still. To the left, with the majesty of emperors, strode the King of Aeltharion, his queen upon his arm, and the princess beside them, her grace a quiet thunder. With them walked the crown prince, golden-haired and sturdy as oak.

The two royal houses met at the hall's heart. Trumpets blared, fanfares sang—a clarion of destiny fulfilled. Liam could find no peace. Before his eyes, the delicate hand, soft as moonlight, was yielded by her father into the grasp of that foreign prince. The dance of the betrothed began, two pairs bound by oath and crown.

Liam's grip tightened upon his lute's neck, so fierce that a stout string broke with a sharp twang, slicing his palm. A curse slipped his lips—he longed to flee, his bardic duty done. Yet his gaze sought her still, her gown a swirl of silver in another's arms.

The dance drew to its close. The neighboring prince, perhaps through lack of courtesy or disdain for his prize, did not lead her to the feasting table. Liam's feet moved unbidden, drawn to her as a moth to flame. His hand brushed hers, a touch familiar yet forbidden.

"My fairest lady," he purred, his bard's charm a mask for the knot in his throat. "Might I escort thee... to the balcony? The gardens?