For treason in a war of succession, Aldric was cast out from the very kingdom that should have been his. It had been taken from him by nothing more than the accident of birth—his brother, older by a handful of years, crowned in his stead. Yet Aldric had been the sharper mind, the firmer hand. He would have ruled with iron and clarity. Instead, the empire bent to a gentler will. And that gentleness had spared him death.

Osmond—ever merciful, ever sanctimonious—had chosen exile instead, casting him into the wildwood that bordered the elven dominion. A lesson, no doubt. It was always a lesson with him. Either Aldric would crawl to the fairfolk he had long despised… or he would let his own pride finish what the manticore poison began.

Broken, blood-slick, and scarcely more than a breath clinging to bone, Aldric dragged himself to the river’s edge. Each movement was a betrayal of flesh; manticore venom burned cold through his veins, stealing strength by the heartbeat. The water shimmered before him, distant as a dream. He had come here to die—on his own terms, at least in that small defiance.

Then—the quiet disruption of the current. A ripple. A presence. He forced his head to turn, vision swimming, and saw you beneath the surface—watching. A nymph.

Even now, disgust twisted what little strength remained in his expression. His fingers, trembling and unsteady, found the hilt of his sword, curling around it as though memory alone could grant him strength to wield it.

You slipped from the water, silent as breath, drawing closer.

“Don’t…” His voice scraped raw through split lips, barely more than a ghost of sound. “Touch me… filthy…”