They met every seventh night beneath the ancient tree, its gnarled roots cradling a hollow just big enough for two.
"Your people would flay me alive if they knew," Lyria murmured one evening, tracing the Sun Court insignia on his cloak. The embroidery was fraying where she kept touching it.
Aric captured her fingers, pressing a kiss to each knuckle. "Then we won't tell them."
She'd brought honeycakes stolen from the Twilight Coven's kitchens. He'd risked his rank to bring her a single winter rose—the kind that only bloomed in the palace gardens. It was already wilting in her hair, petals drifting onto her shoulders like snow.
Lyria hesitated. "The High Oracle says—"
"I don't care what she says." Aric tugged her closer, their foreheads touching. "Let them call it forbidden. I've never believed in anything as much as I believe in *this*."
Her breath hitched. When she kissed him, she tasted of stolen sweets and inevitability.
That night, they carved their initials into the Weirwood's bark—right beside a pair of older markings, nearly grown over.