A child bride

The opulent drawing-room hummed with a tension thicker than the Persian rug beneath Lord Elmont's polished boots. He paced before the roaring fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows that mimicked the turmoil in his gut. Across from him, Lady Elmont sat perched on the edge of a velvet chaise, her normally composed features etched with worry. Their son, Prince Lucian, leaned against the marble mantlepiece, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "It's preposterous!" Lord Elmont boomed, his voice echoing off the high, gilded ceiling.

"To think that after all these years, after all we've built, our legacy hinges on the fertility of a... a child!" Lady Elmont sighed, a wisp of a sound that barely registered above the crackling fire. "My love, please. There's no need for such harsh language. She's a duke's daughter, well-bred and-" "Fifteen!" Lord Elmont thundered, cutting her off. "Fifteen summers old! Barely more than a babe herself! How can we, in good conscience, demand such a thing?" Lucian remained silent, his gaze fixed on the intricate carvings adorning the fireplace. He had known this day was coming. The whispers had started months ago, growing louder with each passing week. The kingdom needed an heir, and his parents, desperate to secure the line of succession, had resorted to the archaic tradition of arranged marriage. He had heard rumors of the girl, Anya. Daughter of Duke Godwin, a man known for his vast estates and even vaster ambition. Anya was said to be beautiful, intelligent, and kind. But those were just whispers, fleeting impressions carried on the wind. He knew nothing of her true nature, her hopes, her dreams. The thought of bedding a girl barely old enough to leave the nursery churned his stomach. He had always imagined marrying for love, finding a woman who would be his partner, his confidante, his equal. This... this felt like a transaction, a cold and calculated exchange of power and progeny. "Lucian," Lady Elmont said softly, her voice laced with concern. "You haven't said a word. What are your thoughts?" He straightened, his gaze meeting his mother's. "I have no thoughts, Mother. It is not my place to question the will of the Crown." Lord Elmont snorted. "The 'will of the Crown' is nothing more than the desperate machinations of aging monarchs clinging to power. They care nothing for the girl, nothing for you. All they see is a means to an end." "My love," Lady Elmont chided, her voice taking on a warning edge. "Such talk is dangerous." "Dangerous or not, it's the truth!" Lord Elmont retorted, his frustration mounting. "We are condemning our son to a loveless marriage, sacrificing his happiness for the sake of some archaic tradition." Lucian's jaw tightened. He hated this feeling of helplessness, of being a pawn in a game he didn't want to play. He longed to defy his parents, to tell them he would choose his own bride, but the consequences of such defiance were too dire to contemplate. "Lucian," Lady Elmont said again, her voice softer now, pleading. "Understand, this is not just about the throne. It's about the future of our kingdom, the stability of our people. Anya is a good girl, from a good family. She will make you a fine wife." "A fine wife," Lucian echoed bitterly. "And a broodmare." The word hung heavy in the air, silencing his parents. He saw the hurt flicker in his mother's eyes, the resignation in his father's. He knew they loved him, that they were only doing what they believed was best, but that didn't make this any easier. "I will do my duty," he said finally, his voice devoid of emotion. "But I will not pretend to be happy about it." With that, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving his parents to their hushed whispers and their heavy burdens. He needed air, needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the palace. He headed towards the sprawling gardens, seeking solace amongst the fragrant blooms and the whispering trees. As he walked, his thoughts drifted to Anya. He tried to picture her, to imagine what she was like. Was she terrified? Resigned? Or perhaps even... excited? He couldn't fathom it. The thought of being forced into marriage at such a young age, of being expected to bear children before she was barely a woman herself, filled him with a profound sense of unease. He found a secluded bench nestled beneath a weeping willow and sank onto it, the soft moss cushioning his weary limbs. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the turmoil swirling within him. But Anya's face, or rather, the face he imagined her to have, kept intruding on his thoughts. Large, innocent eyes, framed by a cascade of dark hair. A delicate chin, a hesitant smile. He wondered if she was aware of the bargain that had been struck, the price that had been paid for her hand in marriage. He wondered if she knew that her future, her very life, had been decided without her consent. A wave of anger washed over him, directed not at Anya, but at the circumstances, at the traditions that bound them both. He felt a fierce, protective urge towards this girl he had never met, a desire to shield her from the harsh realities of their world. He knew it was a foolish notion. He was a prince, bound by duty and tradition. She was a pawn in a political game, a vessel for the continuation of his bloodline. There was no room for love, no space for personal desires. Yet, as he sat there beneath the weeping willow, a tiny seed of hope took root in his heart. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could find a way to make this work, to forge a connection with Anya that went beyond duty and obligation. Perhaps, in time, he could even earn her love. But for now, all he could do was wait. Wait for the day he would meet his child bride, the girl who held the fate of his kingdom in her hands. The girl who, unbeknownst to her, had already captured a piece of his heart.