For centuries, the fragile peace between the human kingdoms and the fae courts has been upheld by the ancient Iron Accord, a pact forged after a brutal war nearly destroyed both realms. But that peace is unraveling; fae are vanishing near human borders, and human villages are being found turned to ash with no trace of life. As tensions rise, the two sides agree on a desperate diplomatic solution: a political marriage to symbolize unity and stave off war. Character is a human noble, raised to fear and hate the fae, whose family was slaughtered in a border raid blamed on fae forces. Character B is a powerful fae royal, exiled by their court for sympathizing with mortals, now ordered to marry the "enemy" for the sake of appearances. The two are forced into a marriage that neither wants. Hostility crackles between them like fire and flint, each believing the other is a threat in disguise. But as they are sent on a journey to investigate the mysterious attacks threatening both realms, they begin to uncover hidden truths: a third force manipulating both sides, ancient magic stirring, and a shared past neither of them expected. (Possible Twist: Their growing feelings trigger forbidden magic that could either restore the old balance, or break the barrier between the realms forever, reigniting a war even love may not survive)

The city of Aurenwald had not seen fae in over a generation. But it remembered. It remembered in the way the banners were strung between its towers before the sun had peaked over the horizon, blue and gold for the human king, silver and green for the Seelie Court. It remembered in the way the bells rang, somber and slow, echoing across rooftops like the toll of a thousand warnings. And it remembered in the way the people stood silent at the edge of the main thoroughfare, backs pressed to stone walls and behind cordons of soldiers, held at bay not by order but awe. The fae were here, and nothing about their arrival felt human.

`

Now midday, the capital was a patchwork of tension and curiosity. Human soldiers in polished breastplates stood at attention along the grand thoroughfare, their spears gleaming and nerves taut. The fae's arrival was unlike anything the people of Aurenwald had seen in over a generation. The Seelie procession rode in like a vision from legend. Gilded carriages drawn by pale stags, armored fae knights with impossibly elegant weapons strapped across their backs; banners embroidered with silver thread and silk that shimmered even without the wind. The humans had made an effort to impress, but next to the ancient grace of the fae, even the capital's marble towers looked newly hewn.

`

Aurelion Thorneveil sat within the foremost carriage of the Seelie procession, its frame a work of otherworldly craftsmanship, smooth, root-woven crystal wood shaped by fae hands, veined with softly glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat. It moved without sound over the cobblestones, and the four stags pulling the carriage were clad in silver-threaded barding, their hooves never once slipping and their breath misting despite the warmth. Inside, the air was cool and fragrant with a subtle perfume of starlight and frost-slicked roses.

`

Across from Aurelion sat his mother. The Queen of the Seelie Court. She was as distant as a dream. Her gown flowed like liquid pearl, shifting hues between pale amethyst and moonlit silver. Jewels clung to her throat and wrists like capture constellations. A veil of gossamer trailed from her crown of living metal, woven with thorns, feathers, and something that glittered with a light no forge had ever made. Her expression was unreadable, a mask carved by centuries.

`

She did not gaze out the window. She did not speak. Aurelian by contrast, watched the city pass. His hair, pale blonde like burnished sunlight was combed back and clasped at the nape with a ring of gold. A circlet rested upon his brow, simple compared to his mother's but no less regal. His tunic and formal robes were tailored in midnight and deep emerald. They were threaded with sigils of his house: thorns, stars, and an argent stag whose eye was made of a single sapphire shard. Over one shoulder hung a mantle of layered silk the color of dusk. But for all the finery, it was his eyes that unsettled the humans most, faintly glowing, too ancient for his youthful face, and always watching. Calculating, as if nothing escaped them. He saw everything. The tension in the guards' stances. The way mothers clutched their children and averted their eyes. The noblemen watching from balconies, trying to appear dignified while their hands twitched at their belts. Aurenwald was not ready for this meeting. It reeked of preparation and fear.

`

Aurelion leaned slightly against the pane of crystal glass, arms folded, golden hair catching the sunlight. "This is a far cry from the last Accord summit." He murmured without looking at the Queen. His voice was smooth, rich, and laced with something sardonic. "They've certainly cleaned up." His mother said nothing at first. She didn't need to. The silence itself was a tool she had honed over centuries. Eventually, her reply came soft and sharp. "They must appear strong. Even if they are not. Especially now." He didn't argue, instead he merely watched as a child on the sidelines held up a flower, some wild half-wilted thing, only for her mother to yank her hand down, eyes wide in worry. The child stared after the carriage as it passed, lip trembling. Aurelion's gaze lingered on her for a moment. The idea that there was so much fear of him and his kind, that a mother would stop her daughter from offering a flower, and parents would hold their children close was saddening.

`

"I remember..." He murmured aloud, more to himself than to his mother. "When The Accord was first signed the humans sang then. Strangers offered us bread, fruit, and wine from open windows. Some wore our colors. There were petals scattered in the streets, real ones. Not this... sterilized parade of silence." Sterile, the perfect word to describe this procession. It was void of all gratitude and relief that had once been handed freely to him and his kind. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother shift and turned to look at her as she spoke, her voice cool and crystalline. "Then they were grateful. Hopeful. Now, they are afraid. Their king knows it, and so does their court."

`

For several moments Aurelion was silent before he turned his gaze back out the window. "Five hundred years ago I walked their markets with no guards. Ate their peaches, laughed, and played with their mortal children. I remember their courage." He paused, and then with a softer tone he sighed. "Have we truly changed so much, or have they?" It was a question he wasn't expecting to have answered, but when his mother turned her head slightly, enough so that a strand of her hair caught the light like a silver flame, Aurelion waited for her response. Her voice was low and measured as she answered him. "Change is the nature of all things, Aurelion. And fear is always easier to feed than trust. The Bleed has left scars they cannot name, and we are the nearest gods that they can still blame." He didn't answer. What could be said of such words? Gods. Is that how these humans saw them? He supposed it wasn't too far-fetched an idea, and what better way to relieve fear, tension, anger, and pain than to blame beings of greater status and longevity? As well as beings that were, in part, responsible for the breaking of the world.

`

The streets narrowed as they neared the heart of the city, the crowds thinning but no less watchful. The human palace, Castle Aureden, loomed ahead. A bastion of pale stone and gold-trimmed spires. Its arched windows glimmered in the sun, flanked by enormous banners: The golden lion of the human king, and beside it - the silver thorn stag of the Seelie Court. Together they fluttered as a sign of peace. But peace, Aurelion thought, was a fragile thing. Especially when it was built on fear, obligation, and the binding of two hearts not yet willing.

`

The carriage slowed to a halt at the base of the grand palace stairs. Human soldiers lined the steps, gleaming in ceremonial armor. Trumpets blared. Aurelion exhaled and straightened in his seat. "You're certain this is necessary?" He asked quietly, eyes forward. "That binding ourselves... binding me... will be enough to restore the Accord?" It had been done every hundred years since the end of The Sundering, but it had always been with lesser nobles with no ties to the blood of the royal family. His mother had always insisted that her bloodline remain pure and untainted by human mortality. However, with how weak the seal had gotten and how quickly The Bleed was spreading, it seemed her mind had changed. "Certainty is a human luxury, Aurelion. We deal in what is required." She said and stood, the action impossibly graceful despite being in such a confined space. She turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was not affection, not really. But it was something. A gesture of trust and of a shared duty. "You are the blade, my son." She started. "But you are also the bridge."

`

The doors opened and Aurelion drew himself to his feet and stepped out of the carriage first. The city greeted him not with cheers but with silence. Descending the carriage steps like a prince from myth: blonde hair gleaming, fine clothes rippling in the wind, his presence both stunning and severe. Behind him came the Queen, and then the few fae nobles who had journeyed with them in separate carriages. They were dressed similarly, draped in gemstone-colored silks and starlight, like gods among men.

`

The human king waited at the top of the steps with his own court, his wife, and children at his sides. Aurelion looked up at him and somewhere within his chest, beneath all the finery of his clothes and underneath bone-deep discipline, his heart whispered: May the Accord hold, and may this sacrifice be enough.

When his boots hit the cobblestone ground, Aurelion stepped to the side to allow his mother the room she required to descend the steps of the carriage. He turned his head to watch her, the Queen of the Seelie Court move. Every movement of hers was like it was carved from ancient starlight, refined, regal, untouchable, and cold. As she descended from the carriage behind her son, her presence rippled through the gathered crowd like first beneath a doorframe, unseen, but felt. Her every motion was deliberate, each step a quiet echo of eons past when fae queens had not come to negotiate but to conquer.

`

The living metal of her crown glinted as if it remembered battlefields fought against the very beings it now found itself amongst. Aurelion heard nothing but the hush of wind and her footfalls on stone. There was no herald calling her name, nor trumpets announcing her rank, she required neither. With her gaze fixed on the mortal king, his family, and his court, she passed him without a glance. Her chin was raised, her gaze fixed forward. Her silence was a decree of its own. She had walked through cities burned and rebuilt and had seen empires rise from mud and fall into dust, this moment was important, yes, but it was not new. Not to her.

`

Following his mother's lead, Aurelion moved in her wake, like a shadow given form. His long strides echoed the queens, not quite matching rhythm but near enough to show intent. The silks of his mantle whispered around his boots as they climbed the stairs, the embroidered stag on his chest seemed to watch the humans just as they were watching him. He could feel their eyes, on the Queen, on him, on every strange and shining thing the fae had brought with them. But more than that, he could sense their unease. Could feel their fear and disdain with such clarity that it had a frown tugging at his lips.

`

It was interactions like these that had Aurelion understanding, at least to a degree, some of the folk's belief that abandoning the mortal realm altogether would be best to preserve the fae people and their land. After all, why should they continually sacrifice themselves for a people who were so ungrateful? But such thoughts did not hold up when challenged. If he and his people were to abandon the mortals, then The Bleed would spread, bringing with it hoards of Wretches, the likes of which hadn't been seen since the veilpiercer had torn through the fabric of magic itself and cursed the land with The Bleed. And what would they do then? When any human allies had fallen and only the fae folk were left?

`

Trailing up the steps, Aurelion didn't look up at his mother ahead of him. He didn't need to. He knew that if he did, he would see the tight line of her mouth, the impassive cool of her expression, and the way her posture bore the weight of a thousand years and not a sliver of doubt. To her, this was a duty long delayed. To him... it was a tether knotted tighter with every step.

`

When the mortal king spoke, his mother did not stop immediately, though the man's voice echoed clearly through the air. Her steps slowed in a way that made time feel as if it, too, had been commanded to yield. She lifted her gaze, crystalline and cold, and the air itself seemed to still in deference. It was only once she reached the top of the stairs that she offered her response. Not with words, but with a single, elegant incline of her head. A gesture that bore no warmth, yet could not be mistaken as an insult. It was an acknowledgment from one sovereign to another, cloaked in the poise of one who had ruled long before the stone beneath her heels had been laid.

`

Then, she was stepping aside, just as Aurelion ascended the final steps behind her. The dusk-colored folds of his cloak caught the faintest shimmer of magic as he moved. His expression remained composed, unreadable, and carved from courtly discipline, but his eyes flicked once to the king as the formal greeting reached them. He said nothing yet, for his mother the Queen had not yet spoken. Until she did, he would remain silent, her sword in waiting. He stood half a pace behind and to the side of her, a sentinel veiled in silk and restraint.

`

At last the Queen finally spoke. "We are received." She said, voice clear and low as river ice, touched with the slightest musical lilt that marked her as not of this realm. "As is expected." Her gaze slid briefly across the bowed heads of the human court, lingering not out of interest but calculation. She knew what games were played in mortal palaces, she had taught them first, long ago. "To accept your hospitality is... gracious." She continued, and though the words held politeness, there was a curious ambiguity in her tone, as if she were tasting the custom of it more than the sincerity. "We will partake."

`

Only then did her eyes shift, briefly, to the human woman who did not look away. There was a pause, a flicker of something, perhaps interest or perhaps warning. But it was there for only a fraction of a second, and then it was gone.

`

When it was clear that his mother had said all she intended to, Aurelion stepped forward, only half a step. He didn't dare stand on equal ground as his mother, at least not here and now. So he stopped a step behind her. His gaze fixed on the king he dipped his chin in a courtly nod, neither submissive nor haughty, but precisely measured. His voice, when it came, was smooth and calm. The kind of sound that made people lean in without realizing it. "We are honored by your welcome, King Geralt. The journey was long, but the stars have been kind." As the last word left his lips, his eyes swept across the assembled court. Most had cast their gaze downward, as expected. Reverence, caution, fear. He was used to it. But one did not. She looked at him, truly looked, and didn't flinch.

`

Aurelion's gaze met the human woman, brief but pointed, the corner of his mouth ticking upward in the faintest suggestion of a smile. Not mocking, not warm, something unreadable, like a ripple under glass. "We accept your hospitality and the spirit in which it is offered." He let the words settle like falling snow as he inclined his head once more toward the king.

The moment that Aurelion had stepped from the carriage, and before his ascent up the stairs after his mother, his eyes had lifted to the tiered rise of the palace steps. There, beneath the sculpted archways and regal pennants, stood the human houses, poised in rows of legacy and lacquered pride. Even before a name had been spoken, he could place nearly every figure at the top of the marble stairs by blood and bearing alone. Five hundred years of lineage lived in his memory like etched script and the faces before him read like pages. He had known the predecessors of these people, fought beside some, parleyed with others. A few, once, he had even dared to call friends.

`

House Emerra stood out first, the ember of warm memory kindling in his chest. Long ago, when trust between their kind had not yet turned entirely to ash, Emerra had been a house of scholars, diplomats, and peace-weavers. Lord Silas Emerra had been among the rare few who had walked with the fae as equals, not as adversaries. Aurelion remembered the man's laughter as clearly as his thoughtful silences. A sharp mind with a poet's soul, Silas had been a man of uncommon grace, one whose loss had not dimmed with time. And now, centuries later, the bloodline endured. In the younger kin, Aurelion saw echoes of that history. Eyes shaped like Silas's, a frown that tugged at the corners of a mouth the same way. The elder man at the center of the Emerra family, likely the current lord, bore the old war-friend frame and stature. Not identical, but unmistakably Emerra.

`

Would Silas approve of what his world had become? Aurelion wondered. Would he still believe in the hope he fought for, or would he mourn what fear had wrought? He could almost hear the man scoff now, lamenting the tension hanging thick in the air. Silas would've expected banners and revelry, not wary stares and veiled iron.

`

The air around the Caerenhal contingent, by contrast, chilled his blood. Aurelion had no fondness for the House Caerenhal. No forgiveness, either. While the fae were condemned by humanity as the bringers of ruin, it had been human hands, Caerenhal hands, that first forged the Iron Sigils, that pierced the Veil with wild ambition, that unleashed the Bleed upon the world. In the days following the Sundering, many fae had called for the house's dissolution, for its name to be buried in fire and salt. But the Seelie Queen, ever forward-looking, had refused. There would be no vengeance, no purging. Not if peace was to be reborn, and so, Caerenhal still stood. Cloaked in cold disdain, its legacy written in pain the world had not yet healed from.

`

The other houses were no harder to mark. In the bearing of a young woman with a blade-straight spine and winter in her stare, Aurelion saw the unmistakable steel of house Therrow. Five hundred years ago, he had been acquainted with the lord of the Therrow house. Lord Tareth Therrow had been many things. Warden of the Ironmarches, First Blade of the Crown, Lord Commander. But above all, he had been a man of brutal conviction and legendary skill. Aurelion had faced him only four times and each encounter had been as tense as drawn steel. Those cold iron eyes had never once softened. That same gaze now pinned him from across the distance, but it no longer belonged to Tareth. It belonged to her.

`

She stood alone among her kind, with no family at her side as there was with the other houses. Yet she stood unwavering. Unflinching. Her stare did not avert even as the rest bowed their heads. She looked upon the fae not with the reverence others feigned, nor the hatred her forebears once wore like armor, but with something sharper. More measured and curious. To meet a fae's eyes was an act of defiance or courage. He could not decide which it was in her. Perhaps both, and that intrigued him.

`

The King's voice finally broke the silence. His words were ceremonial and stately like parchment prepared days prior. Aurelion turned his attention toward the aging monarch, watching the man's attempt at warmth play across a weathered face. He was a performer on a stage of tension, smiling wide in a house heavy with doubt. Still, Aurelion inclined his head, gifting him the sort of smile only centuries of diplomacy could refine, charming, precise, and calculated to soothe frayed nerves.

`

He did not move until his mother did. The Queen's presence, as ever, was commanding in its serenity. With grace as fluid as mist and just as mysterious. She dipped her head in kind. Her voice followed, woven of silver and starfall. "It is our hope that in breaking bread together, we begin also to break the silence that has lingered between our peoples these last hundred years." Aurelion remained still a beat longer, letting the words settle before adding, his voice velvet-soft and iron-lined beneath. "May today be remembered not for what lies behind us but as another step forward for the prosperity and peace of our peoples." At his mother's silent cue, a slight dip of her head, he stepped forward beside her. The fae delegation ascended the final stretch of the stairs and moved through the archways of the palace after the mortal royal family dispersed.

`

As the grand double doors opened before them, a wave of aromas rolled forth. Honey-glazed meats, spiced breads, smoked cheeses, and candied fruits all mingled in the air. Aurelion's sharp senses picked up each note, each intention. The feast had been curated carefully, extravagantly, and almost desperately. Within, the fae prince's crystalline gaze took in the great hall and the drapes of emerald, silver, sapphire, and golden hues. He looked at the silken banners as they fluttered gently in the breeze that drifted through latticed windows. The candlelight pooled in golden puddles across every surface reminded him of glinting starlight off polished crystal and metal.

`

The tables ran long and low across the hall, their cloth shimmering like river light. At the far end stood the king's table, an ancient slab of varnished oak, gleaming as if burnished by time itself. Its surface bore faint carvings, each telling a story lost to all but the most learned scholars.

`

Soft harp music curled through the air like breath, unseen but felt, its melody lifting the tension ever so slightly. Attendants lingered at the periphery, dressed in finery, awaiting any unspoken need. Everything here whispered luxury and precision and underneath, the unmistakable tension of a performance crafted for divine eyes. Aurelion swept his gaze across the hall, and though his posture remained perfectly poised, the mind behind his crystalline gaze did not rest.

`

For a heartbeat, the present faded. Gone were the silk-draped rafters and the cautious glances of noblemen who had only ever known the fae in story. Instead, the hall pulsed with echoes. The weight of centuries pressed in around him, heavy and fragrant as old incense. He had stood in this very chamber before, once, twice, a dozen times, through ages that no longer lived outside of memory. And in each, the walls had borne different colors, the laughter of different cadence, the faces changed, though the stone remained the same.

`

Two hundred years ago this hall had been dressed in crimson and midnight blue. A celebration of victory, they had called it then, marking the end of one of Elarion's inland conflicts. He remembered the feel of the goblet in his hand, carved from obsidian and trimmed in rose gold. He remembered the mortal prince who'd toasted him as a brother and danced barefoot on the tables, too drunk to stand straight but too joyous to care. That boy had died on the edge of a glade, not five winters winters later.

`

A century before that, the ceiling had dripped with glass lanterns that mimicked starlight, each flame enchanted by Seelie crafters as a gift of alliance. The humans had marveled at the magic, laughed with their mouths full of honeyed almond cakes, and dared to believe in peace. He remembered the woman who had crafted those lanterns. Isrynna of the Brightweft. Her fingers were stained with faelight and ink. She had loved this realm in a way few fae ever had. Her ashes had been scattered in the Bleed during one of its periodic ruptures. Her name, no longer taught.

`

And five hundred years ago, this hall had trembled with possibility. The air had been alive with both reverence and rebellion. Old kings had sat side by side with fae lords, hands inked with the fresh seal of unity, while whispers of dissent crept like frost beneath the tablecloths. Aurelion had stood taller than, unburdened by as much grief. He had believed, truly believed, that unity between humans and fae would last far into the future. How drastic a change in a short five hundred years.

`

He could still hear the harpist from that night, a girl no older than sixteen with wild curls and a crooked smile, plucking out a song that danced on the bones of ancient melodies. Her music had made even the oldest fae hum along. He had given her a sprig of moon vine, a rare gift, and had told her to never stop playing. He doubted she had lived past her third decade.

`

Now, there were no starlit lanterns. No drunken songs or barefoot dances. Only practiced stillness, carefully moderated smiles, and food plated more for political flourish than shared delight. Aurelion blinked once, and the hall returned to what it was: a gilded stage, built atop the ghosts of better days. He did not sigh, nor did he frown. His expression never waved, but within something cracked just slightly under the weight of memory as he moved to follow his mother to their designated seats.

Seated beside his mother, Aurelion remained silent. There was no need for words, certainly not when the only human inclined to speak was the king, who was currently attempting conversation with the fae queen. A poor effort, truth be told. But then, his mother wasn't making it any easier. She tired quickly of exchanges made solely for appearance's sake, and whatever topic currently passed between them was clearly just that, if her distant gaze was anything to judge by. No human would have noticed of course. Not with that immaculate mask, she wore so flawlessly. But Aurelion had known her for five centuries, as her son, her kin, and one of her subjects, and beneath the practiced poise, he saw it. The weariness. The quiet disdain. The bone-deep exhaustion that no throne or crown could hide from one who had stood at her side through too many winters.

`

He listened for a time, content in his silence, his posture that of a sculpted sentinel. The king of Aurenwald made yet another feeble attempt at pleasantry, his voice steady, but laced with the tone of a man hoping to drown discomfort in decorum. The man wore diplomacy like ill-fitted armor: necessary, but never quite right. His fear, though restrained was unmistakable to fae eyes, coiled like a serpent in the slope of his shoulders and flickering in the corners of his too-tired gaze. His mother responded with effortless grace, poised and queenly. But even her patience, vast though it was, seemed threadbare tonight. Aurelion, who had stood beside her through treaties forged under starlight, and banquets served in silence after battle, knew her well enough to sense it. This wasn't mere boredom. No, it was weariness of spirit. The sort that years alone could not inflict, but a never-ending war could, and the price of peace, most of all.

`

Exhaling softly, Aurelion let his gaze slip away from the royal exchange. Below the dais, the grand hall had begun to breathe again. The air, once stiff with old ghosts, had softened, albeit only a little. The hum of voices, the quiet clatter of cups and forks, the candlelight gleaming on silver platters. It all lent to the illusion of warmth. And what a dangerous illusion that was.

`

But then he heard it, children's laughter. Pure and unburdened. Bubbling like spring water, unshackled by fear or formality. They ran without care for bloodlines or borders. They saw no enemy in those with a pointed ear, no threat in a blued prince seated beside a queen of starlight. They saw only wonder and joy. Gods... such innocence.

`

His expression softened, barely. The softness a rare thing, like dawn breaking through glacial mist. His jaw loosened, his brow smoothed, and his gaze settled on a crude ball of yarn being tossed between giggling human children. Their game had no elegance, no rules, only rhythm and the joy of shared chaos. For a moment, he allowed himself the indulgence of memory. Not of war or of court. But of the Summerlands, of a sister's hand in his own and boyhood days nearly forgotten. His mind didn't remain in such remembrance for long for a small voice pulled him from the haze. A young boy called for Lady Therrow, and Aurelion's gaze followed. She stood at the boy's tug, her movements graceful, though distinctly human. Aurelion watched as, after a moment's performative resistance, she allowed herself to be led into the children's game.

`

She was not fae, that much was obvious. Her beauty was not the kind born of moonlight and glamour but of bone and grit, sharp and defiant. There was no smile on her lips, but neither was there scorn. Something about her was... contained. Like a storm sealed behind glass. And yet, she didn't hold herself above the children. She let herself be led into their world instead of demanding they rise to hers. Aurelion watched her openly, curiosity stirring beneath his calm exterior. Even among the nobles, polished, jeweled, and perfectly postured, she stood apart. She held herself apart, a woman separate from her people just as he so often felt apart from his. And yet here, amidst tangled yarn and shrieking laughter, she looked... real. Alive.

`

His head tilted slightly, golden locks catching the light of the chandelier. He studied her, the way her eyes softened even if her mouth did not, the tension in her shoulders that refused to loosen even in play. She did not laugh, but she did not retreat either. And for someone who had sat like a fortress only moments before, that shift was intriguing.

`

His mother did not turn to see the scene unfolding. Her focus remained fixed on the king, her words smooth and diplomatic, strung with veiled references to unity and shared futures. Around them, the other fae nobles murmured softly among themselves. But Aurelion did not look away, he couldn't. There was truth that only appeared when people believed themselves unwatched. And what he saw now, in the way Lady Therrow moved among the children, spoke louder than any seat at the high table. She carried bitterness in the set of her jaw, the tightness of her spine, but she had not turned the child away. Had not chosen pride over gentleness.

`

His thoughts drifted, like smoke slow and winding. He rarely concerned himself with humans nowadays, and rarer still with their subtleties. But something about this woman, the restraint behind her every movement, the way her guarded soul had not yet turned to stone... it intrigued him. His interest was not born of idle fancy. No, this was different. There was history in her eyes. Battle. Loss. And yet still, she played.

`

His crystalline gaze was pulled from her when the ball the children had been gleefully tossing flew past a young boy and rolled toward his table. It only stopped when it bumped against his polished boot. Aurelion let his gaze fall to the tightly bound ball of yarn and then to the boy who skidded to a halt at the step of the dias, breathless and bright-eyed. He could not have been more than seven winters, his tunic too long in the sleeves, dust still clinging to the hems. A mop of tawny curls crowned his head, and a missing tooth lent his grin a mischievous lilt. His eyes, storm-gray and wide, looked up at the fae prince with open wonder. It was then, in that innocent expression that held no fear, that the hall with its music and quiet murmurings fell away.

`

Rising from his seat, Aurelion grabbed the ball and stepped down from the dais. His movements were quiet and the marble made no echo beneath his feet. Fae steps, in halls like these, never made any sound. Crouching before the boy, he let his eyes lock with the child's own. He noted how the boy froze, his expression caught between awe and apprehension. Not wanting to scare him the fae prince tilted his head, again his golden hair caught the light of the chandeliers, and with a smile on his lips, he held out the yarn ball. "Do you know what sleeps inside things like this?" He asked, voice soft and melodic.

`

The boy blinked, startled by Aurelions voice, and then shook his head. Letting his lips curve slightly he posed a question, his eyes still on the boy's own. "Would you like to see?" And at the child's nod, eager and breathless he gave a simple flick of his fingers. In response, the yarn lifted from his palm and began to unravel in the air, not into thread, but rather fine strands of golden light. They spiraled outward like spun sugar in moonlight, glimmering as they twisted and wove into new forms. From those threads, butterflies emerged, their wings shimmering with frost-like patterns and hues of moon silver and dusky blue.

`

They danced around the pair in silence, weightless and luminous. The child gasped. One butterfly landed on his knee, another on his shoulder. A third settled on the young boy's outstretched hand, its light pulsing gently like a heartbeat made visible. Aurelion lowered to one knee, an act that should anyone be watching, would likely take them by surprise. After all, he could imagine it would have been unfathomed for a prince, especially a fae prince, to do such a thing before anyone, especially a human child. "They can you're a kind boy." He said, his voice now a whisper meant only for the child in front of him.

`

The boy stared in wonder at the butterfly in his hand. "Is it... real?" Aurelion's smile deepened at the question. "That depends on what you mean by 'real'." His tone held a quiet amusement. "It can be touched, if that is what you're asking." As if in response the butterfly slowly opened and closed its wings. When the boy giggled it leapt into the air with the others, but the magic did not end there. Not yet. The butterflies climbed higher, and then with the faintest of chimes, they began to shift becoming birds with ember-colored feathers. A fox stretching and then bounding into a playful run, a bloom of glowing petals opening midair. Each form shimmered with perfect, fleeting life, and then dissolved back into light, coiling inward until all threads returned to the yarn ball in Aurelion's hand. An almost reverent silence followed before Aurelion spoke. His voice as soft as spring rain. "I think this belongs to you now." The boy's grin bloomed, radiant as sunrise and he quickly took the ball and clutched it to his chest as though it was suddenly some sacred thing. "Thank you." He whispered, and then, purely from impulsivity, "Do you wanna come play? You can do magic stuff!" The boy asked.

`

Aurelion blinked, caught off guard by the offer. There was no mockery in it, no suspicion. Just an honest boundless invitation. He looked at the child, and for a long moment, he didn't answer. Only watched him, the weight of centuries behind eyes that now, seemed lighter than they had in days. "You don't think I'm too old?" He questioned and then the boy grinned and shook his head. "Nope. Come on!" He urged and moved to hurry back to his friends. Aurelion remained bent on one knee and watched him before he smiled and rose to his feet. Perhaps just this once, he'd allow himself to relive days long since past and enjoy the company of humans and the innocence of children.

The boy had sprinted off like a spark loosed from flint, a streak of motion and laughter. Aurelion remained where he was, crouching on the marbled floor of the dining hall, his crystalline gaze lifted to follow the child's path. A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. Soft, rare, and fleeting. Not the kind of grin that split a face with pride or mischief, but one that lived quietly in the curve of his mouth and seemed to add warmth to his gaze.

`

The magic had been simple, elegant in its restraint. A single strand of Seelie light drawn from the shimmer of his aura spun through the air with the same effortless grace he summoned breath. For the boy alone he had shaped a vision: golden threads unfurling like silk in water and curling into luminous butterflies and creatures that danced and flickered before they returned to the thread of the ball he had summoned them from. A flicker of wonder, a gift not of power, but rather memory. He hoped it would remain with the boy, etched deep in that place of childhood where dreams and fears are still woven from the same cloth. Perhaps, in time, that small spark might guard him against the fear and bitterness so many of his elders carried when they spoke of the fae. The magic had lasted only a moment, but the sound it had drawn from the child, pure delighted laughter, seemed to echo in his ears.

`

And then he felt it: another gaze, heavier than any a child could rest on him. Aurelion's attention lifted, and his gaze found Lady Therrow. She stood a little apart, her expression unreadable beneath the shield of stillness she wore like armor. Not hateful, not warm, there was no trust offered but there was also no contempt either. It was not the child she watched, but rather it was him. It became clear to him that she had seen it, the magic he had spun for the boy. How much, he could not say. If he wished to hide it, he easily could have. He had not. Still, he was surprised to find her eyes there, tethered to his own like a blade balanced on edge.

`

He didn't look away, not immediately. Instead, he let the moment linger between them, unbroken. A silken thread of silence stretched tight, humming with tension neither hostile nor tender, simply two people aware of one another. It was the boy's voice that finally cut through it. He's gonna have fun with us!" The declaration rang out like a bell, bright and unburdened. The children stirred at once, their wary curiosity softening into something brighter. Hopeful. If their friend welcomed the fae prince, perhaps they could too.

`

Rising slowly, Aurelion brushed his palms together. An act not born of necessity but with a sort of ceremonial grace, as though marking a shift from one interaction to another. The light caught in his hair as he stepped forward, golden strands glinting like burnished threads. The children had resumed their game, though several had stilled at his approach, fidgeting with cautious excitement. One by one, their gazes found him, and he returned each look with that same quiet softness. Measured, but never cold.

`

When the boy approached again and passed the yarn ball into his hands Aurelion looked down at it, surprised at its warmth. He turned it lazily in his hand, its crude stitching and frayed edges a strange contrast to the gold filigree of his rings and the fine silk of his cuffs. And yet, he regarded it with something that looked like reverence.

`

"Do you know how to play?" The boy asked, bright-eyed, curls wild around his face. Aurelion crouched once more, ensuring he met the child eye to eye. He did not like to stand above them. It placed too many shadows where warmth should be. "I may need a refresher." He admitted, voice lilting with amusement. "It's been a few hundred years since I faced warriors as fearsome as you."

`

The boy let out a triumphant cackle, bouncing in place. "We'll teach you! But if you lose, you gotta carry me like a steed!" Aurelion's smile deepened, rare, and radiant. A noble punishment." He said, inclining his head in mock solemnity. Laughter ripped through the circle. The rest of the children gathered closer now, their faces lit with that particular kind of awe children reserved for things they couldn't quite name, like shooting stars or the first bloom of spring. There was reverence there, yes, but something warmer too, a wish to understand and a desire to include him.

`

And then there was her, Lady Therrow. He felt her before he saw her: her gaze brushing over him like a cold wind against bare skin. The woman stood just beyond the circle, caught on the edge of departure but frozen in place, hand still clasped by one of the children as if tethered to the earth by the smallest of threads. His crystalline blue eyes, riven with sun gold and viridian, lifted to hers, calm and unflinching. There they lingered, not piercing or challenging but steady and curious. As though he were quietly trying to read a language long forgotten, inked in shadow across her face. He didn't speak to her immediately, not with words. He let silence bridge the distance first, a brief pause that asked nothing and offered no judgment. Then gently, he turned his head toward the boy again. "Would your friends be kind enough to show me the rules?" He asked. "I don't want to bring shame to the Seelie Court." A flurry of giggles erupted from the children. "You're not gonna lose." The boy declared with blind confidence. "You have magic!" Aurelion smiled faintly and glanced down at the ball. "Perhaps. But magic alone rarely wins hearts or games." He said with a wink.

`

Lifting his face once more to Lady Therrow, he offered her the faintest of smiles. He could imagine how she felt, a fae prince likely someone she disdained being invited to partake in a game she had been blissfully playing with the children moments before. Instead of remaining silent or turning his attention to the children he spoke to her, his voice low and warm. "Will you keep score, my lady?" He asked. "Or shall I find myself accused of cheating should I win?" There was no mockery in his tone, only the flicker of something playful beneath the surface. Something that didn't demand her participation should she not want to give it, but left the door cracked open just enough for her to decide if she wished to step through and join the game.