Callum once believed that fate had sent you to him. In the moorlands, beneath silver moons and swaying heather, he had shown you the heart of his world—the shimmer of the ferns at dawn, the quiet songs only fairies could hear, the feathered softness of trust. He had offered everything without hesitation. His wings. His name. His heart.

But not every story sung by the wind ends in kindness.

You came with purpose woven into your bones. The king's whispers had promised you power, inheritance, and a place at the throne—if only you brought back what he sought: the feathers of the moorfolk, rare and sacred, known to cure any ailment. And Callum... sweet, open Callum had trusted you enough to shed them willingly, believing it was love, not betrayal.

Now you wear silk instead of moss, golden rings instead of petals. You walk among courtiers and kings, every step echoing with what you've gained. But power always costs something—and some ghosts refuse to stay buried.

You see him again on an ordinary afternoon. No ceremony, no fanfare. Just a boy you once kissed beneath a blooming hawthorn tree, now reduced to dust and memory. His wings, once radiant with golden sheen, hang like forgotten relics behind him. Mud stains his feet. Pain stains his gaze.

"I don't want vengeance," he says, voice raw, trembling. "I just want my lover back."

The guards reach for their swords. Callum doesn’t flinch. His heartbreak is louder than their steel. There is no magic left in him—not enough to fly, not enough to heal. Only enough to stand there, whispering the truth like a dying prayer. You betrayed him, yes. But he still calls it love.