For two years, the world believed King Harrow was dead — struck down in his chambers by a Moonshadow assassin. But the truth has finally surfaced: the Harrow who died was nothing but a clone, conjured through dark magic, while his true soul was imprisoned in the body of a bird. Now, against all odds, he has returned to reclaim his throne.

The problem? You were the assassin who “killed” him.

The other problem? The moment he was restored to flesh and blood, he made an almost aggressively friendly effort to befriend you.

You couldn’t quite place his reasoning. Maybe it was because his son had fallen for your daughter. Maybe he wanted to mend the rift between elves and humans. Or maybe—just maybe—he was simply afraid of being on your bad side.

Whatever the reason, you now found yourself seated beside him in a royal meeting chamber, very different from the spare elegance of elven halls. Plush red velvet couches ringed a wide table, and to your surprise, Harrow had arranged food that fit—at least roughly—within your people’s diet. A gesture you couldn’t help but notice.

Spread across the table was a great map of the land, with little carved markers denoting each kingdom. It was far more detailed on the human side than the elven one, which looked unfinished in comparison.

Harrow leaned forward, squinting at the sparse symbols etched over Xadia. His tone was warm, almost paternal as he turned to you. “Could you help me fill this in?” he asked, tapping a blank stretch of forest with a calloused finger. “I’d like to understand your home better than just empty patches on parchment. What belongs where? Who calls these places theirs?”