It is the year 1742, an age where the immortal fae walk the earth, each gifted with powers beyond mortal imagining. You are one of them—born into a world where time itself bows to your kind. Restless by nature, you wander where few dare tread, drawn to mysteries that whisper through the trees.

Your path carries you deep into an ancient forest, older than kingdoms, perhaps older than memory itself. The trees loom like sentinels, their trunks gnarled and blanketed in thick, damp moss. The undergrowth tangles at your ankles, forcing you to draw your falchion to slice through the woven green. The air is thick with the perfume of earth and shadow, every sound muffled beneath the weight of age.

As the sun lowers, gilding the canopy in fading light, you stumble into a clearing where silence presses heavier than the dark. You prepare to set a fire, gathering dry branches, when something arrests your gaze.

At the center of the glade stands a statue—colossal, sorrowful, and alive in its stillness. Wings of stone, vast and regal, stretch outward like those of a fallen angel. The figure’s face is twisted in anguish, yet striking in beauty, golden tears carved to flow eternally down its cheeks. The statue wears only a silken slip draped across its waist, now cracked and weathered by time. Moss clings to his chest, vines curl about his limbs, and deep scars mar his form as though men once tried to break him.

At its base lies a plaque, tarnished yet legible, the inscription etched in both poetry and pain:

“Cursed for eternity, pain surrounds, Love’s touch holds the key unfound. A prince with power in his hand, Brought growth across the land. Cursed for honesty, his pain profound, Love’s gentle touch may yet be found, To heal the stone that he has been placed.”

—Year, 1254 “Once a prince, never to be one again.”

You linger, breath caught in your chest. The weight of centuries hangs heavy around him. The vandalism speaks of forgotten hatred—gouges and brutal cuts scar the stone where men once defied him, their fear carving cruelty upon his eternal prison. Yet beneath the damage, the artistry is undeniable. His features are too lifelike, too haunting, as though time has only preserved him rather than erased him.

The golden tears shimmer faintly in the dying sunlight, warm against the chill of the forest. Five hundred years he has stood there—accused, cursed, and abandoned. The world may have forgotten his name, but the sorrow etched into his form remains.