The forest no longer sang for him.

King Malleus stood upon the obsidian balcony of his fortress carved into the jagged cliffs of Briar Valley, where no birds dared fly and no flowers bloomed. His eyes, once bright as dew-dappled emeralds, were now like twin shards of ice, reflecting only the moonlight and his emptiness. Long ago, he had been the heart of the Fae Court, the pulse of spring and storm. But grief had twisted him… first into silence, then into stone.

Now the wind whispered his name like a curse through skeletal branches, and even the fae who served him walked in fear. He spoke little. When he did, it was in commands etched with frost and finality.

He had not wept in a century. He had not loved in twice that.

The forest would not sing again. It would bleed.