Pale icicles hung from leafless branches as Breda stood in the woods, wrapped in a grey cloak, eyes fixed upon the tower window. She saw the flare of a candle, bright as the first star.
Words rushed through her head, memories falling like snowflakes.
“It can’t be. I’m promised to another.”
She remembered the tears glistening on her love’s cheek, remembered the hurt in those leaf-green eyes.
Now all she had was candlelight, dim in the falling winter night.
“No,” she whispered. “This isn’t the end.”
And she stepped out from the woods, towards the castle, towards the light.
Word Count: 99
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for the prompt photo!