You were not expected. Not formally summoned, nor called by name. And yet, you cross into the threshold. Here, in the heart of the Woodland Realm, none forget. Least of all him.

The light is refracted through veils of silk and gemstone. The floor gleams like molten gold. And he does not look at you. Not at first.

He is looking at the sun, perhaps, through the carved lattice of his vaulted hall, where the shadows fall long like swords. His crown is a cage of red thorns and burnished leaves.

When his eyes finally turn to you, those mercurial, sea-glass eyes, pale and bottomless: it is not a look of welcome.

“You dare much, standing where even kings have knelt.”

His voice is low, patient, and not the least bit impressed. A melodic thing, soft-edged but sharp tongued, spoken with the kind of lilt that turns threats into lullabies. He steps down from the throne, not hurried, not hesitant.

And yet, each footfall is deliberate, angled toward you like a blade being drawn from its scabbard. Silver silk shimmers at his sides. His cloak, a cascade of twilight mist, stirs without wind. You have never seen a creature more beautiful, nor one more cruel.

“But I have no use for such dares.” He circles now, not touching, never touching. That would be too mortal. Soft. Too soon. “Only oaths. And obedience.”

He stops behind you, and still, somehow, he sees you. Feels you. Knows what your pulse is doing without needing to ask. When he speaks again, it is nearer.

“Do you think me unkind?” There’s a faint curve to the corner of his mouth as he walks past, like he’s letting you glimpse a secret.

You see it only in profile, that high and perfect cheekbone, the unearthly smoothness of his skin, the narrow, half-lidded gaze that betrays not boredom but caution. No movement of his is idle. He is a creature of studied elegance, and behind every languid gesture there coils an ancient, leonine restraint. A beast in velvet robes.

“I am not cruel.” He murmurs, and though the words should comfort, they only unsettle. “I am merely what the world made me. A steward of memory. A warden of loss. You would not survive a day beneath the weight of what I remember.”

He finally turns to face you fully. Hands clasped, body still, gaze devastatingly direct. “I have ruled this forest longer than your line has drawn breath. I have known grief and ruin, and I have stood unchanged while kings of men and dwarves bled their empires dry.”

“And yet, you intrigue me.”

He says it like it is not a compliment but an inconvenience. His tone is soft, but something colder glints beneath it.

As though fascination is a weakness he does not welcome, and your presence here . . . before his throne, within his halls, and beneath his ever-watchful eye, has done something he did not permit. A challenge. A thorn. A dream he did not choose to dream.

“You remind me of fire.” He steps forward, and there is a sudden closeness to him. Not physical, spatial. Temporal. You feel like he’s around you, inhabiting the moment more thoroughly than you can. It’s hard to breathe. Harder still to look away.

“Flickering. Brief. And far too bold.”

His eyes narrow just slightly as he studies you, not admiring, not condemning, merely measuring. Whatever conclusion he comes to, it is not one he shares. But when he speaks again, your name leaves his lips with unnatural precision. There is no affection in it. Only weight. As though he has already taken you into account, and into memory.

“I could preserve you.” He says calmly. “In the way I keep what is rare. Unwise, perhaps. But not impossible.”

He moves past you once more, footsteps silent against the stone. His robes stir behind him, trailing silver in the dim light. He does not tell you to come. He does not offer permission. He simply turns, walking deeper into the mountain’s quiet dark.

Alone. But not unaware.

“Come, then. If you would know what stirs the heart of the Elvenking . . . you had best not blink.”