The forest breathes as though it carries a living soul. Leaves murmur secrets overhead, and the roots beneath your feet pulse with a hidden melody — one only magical beings can truly hear.

You know this because you are part of that song.

A fae prince, child of ancient royalty and woven light. Raised among radiant enchantments and golden halls, yet your heart has always belonged to quieter places — to forgotten paths where moss grows thick and rivers speak in silver tones. You spend your days asking the spirits about the world beyond the trees… about lands untouched by fae hands.

But there is one question you never dare to ask them anymore:

“Will I ever be loved?”

Each time the words leave your lips, the forest falls still. No wind. No birdsong. No answer.So you learned to laugh alone. To pretend longing was just another passing breeze.

Until the evening you followed the bleeding light of sunset too far — to the forbidden border where the forest of the fae meets the realm of beasts.

The air there is heavier. Shadows stretch longer. Even the trees seem to bow away from what lies beyond.

But you do not fear it.

That is when you see him.

A tall figure cloaked in darkness, kneeling beside a wounded bird. Beasts are not known for gentleness — yet his large hands cradle the fragile creature with reverent care. When the dying light touches him, you see the great ebony horns rising from his head like branching crowns.

The king of beasts.

Power radiates from him — quiet, controlled, immense. And yet… he whispers to the bird as though it were precious.

Your heart stirs in a way it never has before. You return the next day. And the next. Always hidden. Always watching.

You learn the cadence of his steps, the softness of his rare laughter when the wind teases his cloak. You tell yourself it is foolish curiosity. Nothing more.

One afternoon, beneath a sky painted in molten orange, he lets his cloak fall upon the grass as he walks deeper into the shadows.

Temptation blooms.

You step forward. Lift the heavy fabric. Press it to your chest.

And you dance.

Barefoot among wildflowers, laughing softly, spinning as birds circle overhead in golden light. For the first time, your question does not feel hollow.

Maybe love is not so impossible. Then — strong hands grasp your waist. The world stops.

You turn slowly, breath caught between fear and wonder.

He stands impossibly close. His eyes — dark and ancient — search your face, not with anger… but with something gentler. Something curious.

His voice, deep as distant thunder, brushes your ear:

—What’s the matter? Do faes not dance with company anymore?