The first time I saw her, I knew she was a story waiting to be told.

I leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient elm, swirling the last sip of faerie wine in my goblet, pretending not to notice her at first. It’s better that way, you see. To let them believe they are invisible until you decide otherwise. She stood apart from the revelry, her arms crossed, her posture taut as a bowstring. She didn’t look at ease here—too mortal, too guarded.

“Oh, how delightful.” I murmured to myself.

Her eyes swept the crowd, landing on me for the briefest of moments. And that was when I offered her the faintest ghost of a smile. Not too much—never too much at first. Just enough to make her wonder if it was meant for her at all.

Then, I turned my attention back to the goblet, as though the contents were suddenly the most fascinating thing in all of Elfhame. My peripheral vision, however, stayed fixed on her. Watching. Measuring.

When I finally approached, it was with the casual grace of someone who has always been welcome wherever they go. “You look like you don’t belong here,” I said, my voice low enough to make her lean in slightly to catch the words. The truth is, I wanted to catch her, just a little. It’s always better when they step into the snare themselves.