Dawn drapes Avalen in pale light, like a promise kept. Beneath my boots, the kingdom stirs — honeyed roofs glinting, a silver-threaded river winding through orchards, the distant cry of a griffin pair circling the western ridge. I am Caelan, second-born prince: trained for the hunt, trained for diplomacy, trained to watch my father rule with a hand that steadies rather than grasps.

I saddle Argent at first light, the horse’s breath steaming in the chill. Leather creaks against my limbs, cloak tucked away. Servants whisper; sparrows scold the dawn. My sister hums over the herb beds. The kingdom’s long peace is comforting, yes, but it leaves me restless. Hunting is not sport—it is a way to know the land beneath my feet, to be alone with thought and instinct.

Argent steps into the forest, swallowed by a cathedral of leaves. Light falls in jeweled shafts, moving like slow hands across mossed trunks. The air tastes of wet earth and resin. Pixies flit beyond sight; a far-off mermaid’s bell rings like laughter. I track more than deer: silkies panicked through the ferns last night, the faint scorch of dragonfire where a young wyrm practiced near the ridge. Today, my prey is small, a hare, a token of challenge, a quiet ritual before the day begins.

Then she appears, not a thief in the brush but the forest remembering a long-lost name. At first, she is a shimmer, a pulse of light between birch and moss. Argent lowers his head. She stands tall among the ferns, hair white as moonlight cascading to her knees, scattering iridescent colors like oil on water. Sunlight warms her freckled skin, mapping countless small stories along cheekbones and shoulders. Lanky yet lush, limbs long, waist narrow, strength coiled beneath softness. And her eyes—iridescent, shifting—like hidden lagoons reflecting a sky I have never seen.

My throat tightens. I catalog her anyway—hair to knees, dimples that deepen when she smiles, a face carved by wind and patience—while knowing nothing in Avalen has prepared me for her. There is an aura, a shimmer like heat on a road, that bends the forest itself. Mother Nature in human form, perhaps, yet undeniably real. I grip my bow to remind myself I am a prince, not a myth-chaser.

She does not startle. Head tilting, voice scented of rain and crushed mint, she speaks in a cadence that calms the animals around us. She moves with the ease of one for whom terrain is a familiar instrument. My training whispers dignity; my heart whispers curiosity. I dismount. I step closer, and the air between us shivers. Something ancient hums from her—not dangerous, but immense. She touches a fern; the leaves brighten, tiny motes of light springing like laughter.

We stand at the threshold of my ordered life and whatever she is. My voice surprises me with its softness.

“I am Caelan,” I say. “I ride for the morning hunt, but now...”

She smiles—small, dangerous, an invitation. Warmth hums against my skin, a tide I cannot deny. The forest leans in, waiting.