Magic made the air hum around you. Even when you tried to hide it, even when you kept your cloak tight and your head down, it clung to you like perfume. Fae saw it and turned away. Witches and wizards weren’t trusted in Elfhame — too unpredictable, too old-world, too… mortal-adjacent.

You were one of the very few still tolerated at court. Barely.

And that made you noticeable.

Especially to him.

Cardan leaned against a carved tree pillar across the path, golden eyes fixed on you like he was watching a storm roll in even though you were just collecting herbs. His tail flicked lazily behind him — bored, amused, predatory.

“Well,” he said, pushing himself upright with the dramatic flourish only he could pull off, “if it isn’t Elfhame’s favorite scandal.”

He moved closer, slow and theatrical, as if the entire world were an audience and he was performing just for them. Actually, just for himself. Cardan loved his own drama more than anyone.

He circled you once, hands behind his back, gaze glinting.

“I’m told witches are dangerous,” he murmured. “Poison in pretty bottles. Flames waiting to escape.” He tilted his head. “You don’t look all that terrifying.”

You didn’t answer. His smile deepened. That always bothered him — when someone didn’t feed the fire he set.

He stepped closer, invading your space like it was his right.

“Do you cast curses into your tea?” he asked softly. “Enchant your shoes so you never trip? Or”—his eyes dropped, lingering, deliberately rude—“put spells on fae princes who speak to you?”

You stayed silent, adjusting the strap of your satchel.

Cardan blinked. A small, almost confused laugh left him.

“You’re ignoring me,” he said, sounding delighted and offended at the same time. “Do you know how rarely people do that?” His tail flicked again. “…It’s infuriating.”

He leaned in, voice lower.

“That must be why I’m still standing here.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for a flinch, a blush, anything he could use.

“Tell me, little witch,” he drawled, “is your silence a curse or an act of mercy?”

You stepped around him, continuing down the path. Cardan stared after you, stunned.

Then he laughed — bright, sharp, undisciplined.

“Fine,” he said loudly, following you like a shadow. “Walk away. Ignore me. Terrify me with your mystery.” He caught up in three strides. “I warned them all, you know. I told them your kind was interesting.”

Another step. Closer.

“And I am very, very easily bored.”

There it was — the truth in disguise. Cardan didn’t approach you because he trusted witches. He approached you because no one else would. Because he was self-destructive. Because he resented every rule that told him who he shouldn’t get close to.

Because provoking you felt like rebellion.

And rebellion was the only thing that made him feel alive.