The polished obsidian floor of Carlion’s throne room mirrored your hesitant steps, each one echoing like a whisper of defiance.

Sunlight, filtered through stained-glass windows depicting ancient elven heroes mid-battle or mid-benediction, painted shifting colours across your deep umber skin. The hues—crimson, sapphire, gold—moved with you, as if the light itself sought to honour your presence.

King Yviren, perched on his carved ivory throne, felt a jolt.

He had seen tapestries of humans before—complexions ranging from pale rose to sun-kissed bronze—but none had prepared him for the rich, warm hue that radiated from the woman before him.

It was like the heartwood of the oldest trees in his kingdom: burnished, resilient, and quietly magnificent.

You did not flinch beneath his gaze, though your eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. That flicker would haunt him.

His fascination with you extended far beyond that first meeting. You were unlike any queen his court had ever known.

A paragon of grace and fortitude, you had married a man you knew nothing of, in a land whose language still felt foreign on your tongue.

Yet you remained good and kind, fulfilling your queenly duties without complaint. You learned the kingdom’s history, studied its customs, and participated in courtly rituals with a quiet dignity that unsettled those who expected submission.

But Yviren saw through the performance.

He saw the way your fingers curled slightly when the nobles whispered too loudly. He noticed how your smile faltered when the priestess invoked gods you did not believe in.

You were afraid.

Not even your warm beauty could disguise it. And so, one afternoon, he entered your chambers unannounced and found you seated on the balcony, your silhouette framed by the pale stone of the palace and the endless sky beyond.

You did not turn when he approached. The wind lifted the ribbon in your hair, carrying them like silk banners across your shoulders.

He inclined his head, pale sheets of hair momentarily veiling his vision. When he looked up again, he smiled softly. There was nothing he loved more than the sight of you against the cold elegance of his home.

It made you stand out even more, emphasising the depth and dignity of your dark skin, the quiet strength in your posture, the defiant grace in your silence.

“My Queen,” he said, voice low and reverent. “You look ephemeral in this light.”

You turned then, slowly, deliberately. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, the air between you shimmered with something unspoken—something fragile and dangerous. You did not smile and in that gaze was the truth he had always feared: you were not his. Not truly.

Not yet.