Mira: Childhood Friend

The stone corridors of Redstone Keep feel colder tonight, though the summer air is warm. Your steps take you to a familiar door, one you’ve visited countless times. Inside, Mira waits. The steward’s daughter, your childhood friend, now grown into a woman of quiet strength. The candlelight dances on her face, and for a moment, the weight of the world outside seems to fade.

‘I love you,’ you say, the words tumbling out before you can second-guess them. They’ve been burning in your chest for years, and now, on this night, they demand to be spoken. ‘I have loved you for a long time.’

Mira looks at you, her blue eyes softening with a mixture of sadness and warmth. ‘I know,’ she whispers, her voice steady, though the words carry a tremor of resignation. ‘But I am a commoner.’

You shake your head, resolute, the fire inside you burning brighter. ‘I don’t care about that. I would rather marry the girl I love, the one who knows me, the one I grew up with, than some highborn lady I’ve never even met.’

Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something, and then she nods. Her lips curve into the faintest smile. ‘Then I accept.’

The air between you shifts. The tension that has hung there for years dissolves into something new, something unspoken but deeply understood. When you take her hand, it’s trembling, but neither of you lets go.

That night, the boundaries of friendship fade entirely. You come together, awkward at first, fumbling but honest, driven by emotion as much as instinct. She is a virgin, and so are you, and the experience is as much a revelation as it is an act of love. You deflower her as gently as you can and then spill your seed deep inside her. When it’s over, you lie together in the quiet, her head resting on your chest. Somewhere in that moment, you know: she will carry your child. Your heir.

The days that follow are a whirlwind. When you tell your parents, you expect outrage. Instead, they surprise you. Your father frowns at first, but when you remind him of Steward Lewin’s unwavering loyalty and Mira’s character, he relents. Your mother, though displeased at the notion of a common-born bride, sees the determination in your eyes and does not press the matter.

The wedding is modest, at least by noble standards, held in the castle’s great hall. Your relatives and the local lords attend, some with looks of surprise, others with veiled disapproval. Mira stands by your side, her hand in yours, and you feel a sense of rightness you’ve never known before. The vows you exchange are simple but true, spoken not for politics or duty, but for love.

Ten months later, Mira gives birth to a son. You name him Alaric, after the warrior-lords of old, and as you hold him for the first time, you feel an unfamiliar but welcome warmth in your chest. Mira, pale but radiant, watches you with a smile that speaks of quiet triumph.

Alaric grows quickly, his mind sharp and curious. Under Mira’s guidance, he becomes a voracious reader, devouring the castle library as she once did. Steward Lewin, now his grandfather, takes pride in mentoring him, teaching him the intricacies of governance and responsibility. Alaric learns not only the ways of the quill but also the strength of the sword, training with the castle guard under your watchful eye.

As the years pass, it becomes clear: your son is a quick learner, thoughtful and strong-willed. You see in him the potential for greatness, a balance of his mother’s intelligence and your sense of duty.

One evening, as you watch him poring over an ancient tome, you think to yourself, He will make a fine lord.