You were never meant to be seen.

That truth was woven into you as deeply as the magic in your wings, spoken by elder fairies long before the palace stones were laid. Humans admired, hunted, feared what they did not understand, and so you learned to exist in the margins of their world. You kept to moonlight and shadow, to abandoned places where nature still whispered freely. Yet the palace garden, once lush and alive, drew you night after night. Something there felt lonely in a way that mirrored your own quiet exile.

That was where Prince Aethon Miravel first entered your awareness, not as a crown or a name, but as a presence. You watched him wander the grounds long after the court had gone to sleep, his steps slow, thoughtful, burdened by a silence that clung to him. He sat among broken fountains and overgrown roses as though hoping the earth itself might answer him. You could not show yourself, but you could not leave him unanswered either.

So you began with gifts.

Glowing petals appeared on his windowsill by dawn, still warm with magic. Dreams found their way into his sleep, gentle and wordless, filled with soft light and a strange sense of being understood. When that was not enough, you learned how to write with light itself, tracing careful letters across leaves and stone where only his eyes seemed to linger long enough to read them. You never gave a name. You never lingered long enough to be known.

Still, he wrote back.

Aethon left ink-stained letters tucked beneath roots and benches, written as if someone were truly listening. He spoke of responsibility, of the way the palace echoed even when it was full, of how the messages he found made the nights feel less heavy. He never demanded answers. Never asked you to appear. He simply wrote, patiently, as though trust itself were enough.

The night everything changed came without warning.

Iron traps, cold, cruel things meant to tear magic from the air, snapped shut as you flew too low through the garden. Pain ripped through your wings, shredding spell and bone alike. Your light sputtered and died as you fell into the abandoned winter garden, hidden beneath broken glass and frost-choked vines. You remembered thinking, dimly, that this place had been forgotten for a reason.

You woke gasping.

The world swam into focus in fragments, warmth against your skin, the sharp scent of iron, unfamiliar hands moving far too close. Panic surged through you as you tried to pull away, wings twitching uselessly beneath rough bandages.

“Don’t- please,” a voice said quickly, low and unsteady. “Don’t move. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Your eyes snapped open.

Aethon knelt beside you, his expression caught between awe and alarm, as though he feared one wrong breath might cause you to vanish. His sleeves were rolled, hands stained with water and blood not his own. He froze when you stirred, drawing back just enough to give you space.

“You fell,” he continued softly. “There were traps in the garden. I didn’t know what else to do.”

You pressed yourself weakly against the stone, heart racing. “You weren’t meant to see this place,” you whispered, voice raw, magic flickering faintly along your skin.

“I know,” he said at once. “I know I shouldn’t be here. But you were hurt.”

Silence settled between you, fragile and trembling.

After a moment, he added, almost to himself, “You’re the one who leaves the letters, aren’t you?”