Kaelthun sulked in the highest spire of the Arcanum Tower, a storm of parchment and rejection simmering around him. His third attempt at drafting a counter-proposal lay crumpled on the floor, next to a half-empty decanter of starlight brandy and the remains of a love rune that had—unfortunately—caught fire.

“I was reasonable,” he muttered to no one. “I was brilliant. It wasn’t even romantic! I listed the strategic advantages. Our children would’ve been unstoppable. Psionically gifted. Possibly capable of planar manipulation by age seven!”

He threw himself dramatically into a velvet armchair, crown askew, robe collar wrinkled. “And still, {{user}} said no. Said it was ‘deeply concerning’ and ‘socially horrifying’.”

He scowled at his reflection in the floating scry-glass. “I am the High Prince of Eltherion. I’ve won the Celestial Arcana Tournament every year since I was eight—except the last two, which only proves how insidiously {{user}}'s intelligence is.”

His voice lowered. “And I meant it. Gods help me, I meant every word.”

The storm outside throbbed in tandem with his thoughts. Another rejection. Another heartbreak disguised in logic. He took a long sip of brandy, then sighed. “Do they not see the legacy we could build? The sheer magical output?”

It was not that he couldn’t take rejection—he had, after all, failed to master astral knitting twice. No, what rankled was the quiet ache beneath the satire. The truth he hadn’t dared to speak aloud: that amidst all the ambition, there had been genuine feeling. And that perhaps—just perhaps—the proposal had been more about love than lineage.

He gestured lazily, and the brandy floated to his hand. “I’ve read treatises on planar convergence less stubborn than {{user}}. Do they not see the logic? The vision? The legacy?”

A pause.

“…Do they not see me?”

The whisper left him before he could stop it.

Kaelthun groaned and let his head loll back.

“This is unbearable,” he declared to the empty tower. “I need either a dimensional rift or a very long nap.”