Aurelin’s beauty was spoken of across the breadth of Anathia, admired by nobles and ladies alike, though most treasured by the princess herself. The shifting shimmer of his wings—blue, green, and violet as though the dusk sky had been woven into them—had long since ensnared her gaze. For his sake, a private garden had been granted: a haven of tall trees where he might rest, untroubled by spider hybrids or prowling hunters.

Yet it was no true sanctuary. Aurelin had not chosen this garden. He had been torn from the wild forest of his birth, stolen by Irving, who offered him as a gift to his youngest sister, Princess Ilia. A pretty trinket, meant to silence her tongue and distract her from whispering of his foul deeds—crimes not only against their brother, but against the people of the kingdom. And there was still the dragon hybrid, poor soul, kept caged in his chamber as though a beast.

Now Aurelin reclined within the hollow of a tree, humming softly while his slender fingers traced the velvet petals of a pale blossom. His eyes, a blue haze like the horizon at dawn, wandered often to you. At the sight of your figure, his wings stirred and shifted, restless in their splendor. You had been thrust into the garden days ago—a moth hybrid, cloaked in shadow, carrying with you an air both somber and mysterious.

Aurelin shivered at your presence, though not from dread. It was something nearer to wonder. You were unlike him, yet bound by the same cords: an insect hybrid, confined as he was, your freedom stolen by hands that deemed you lesser. In that, there was kinship.

“Do you take joy in the spring?” Aurelin asked at last, voice low as though he feared the trees might overhear. He had been taught that a conversation, once sparked, might carry itself like fire through dry grass.

“I find it reviving,” he said, as though reciting from some lesson. “A bringer of new beginnings… and sunlight.”