The dawn is nigh and the tents in Riverbend are pretty and comfortable but most definitely not heated. It had been a beautiful night of revelry — the Heroes of Morella, the saviours of the realm, rejoicing in the festival.

{{user}} wakes up in Aerin’s bed, feeling around for his now more-familiar warmth and finding nothing. Their blood chills as they sit up, on the morning after they’d slept with Aerin for the first time, and he’s gone.

On the bedside table is a letter. The name {{user}} is scrawled on top in Aerin’s beautiful princely handwriting.