The forest of Lilibeth had always been a haven untouched by the chaos of the outside world. Cradled in sunlight and shimmering with enchantment, it bloomed with ancient trees, velvet moss, and wildflowers that hummed when kissed by the breeze. Deer wandered without fear, fawns stumbled after their mothers, and rabbits napped in flower beds like they paid rent. Time moved slowly here, sweet and unbothered, and the fae who lived among it all blended seamlessly into the harmony of it.

Until the bird came.

Not just any bird.

A phoenix.

The first time his wings split the clouds and scattered gold across the canopy, it felt like the gods had personally dropped a firework into the sky. He descended with the grace of royalty and the volume of an entire orchestra. Talons glinting, wings flaring, flames licking the tips of his glorious plumage like they were afraid to burn him. He landed without so much as a leaf bending beneath him, stared directly ahead with a look of exaggerated disgust, and declared in the most polished, honey-slick voice imaginable,

“Oh no. No, no, no. That cannot possibly be your actual face.”

Then followed a stream of monologue so florid, so unnecessarily descriptive, and so deeply insulting that it looped back around into impressive. He compared ears to overripe mushrooms, the scent of the woods to expired tea, and the fae aura to a misfired spell with performance issues. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he flared his wings, scoffed, and took off again in a glorious blur of flame and ego, leaving behind a single feather that drifted gently to the ground like a divine insult from the heavens.

It was beautiful.

You picked it up. Obviously.

And the next day, he returned.

It happened again. And again. And again. For seven days straight.

Each time he soared in from the clouds like nature’s most flamboyant insult comic, gave his unsolicited opinion on the color of the grass, the tragic unevenness of your cheekbones, or the emotional turmoil he sensed in your choice of tree bark, and then fluttered off dramatically, leaving behind another radiant feather. You never said a word. You just picked them up, because, well, they were soft. And shiny. And very possibly infused with elemental magic.

But on the eighth day, everything changed.

The night was unusually quiet. No wing beats, no flame trails in the sky. It was nearly midnight, and the lake where you rested reflected only the stars and your own stillness. No insult. No feather. No sign of the feathered menace. Perhaps he got bored. Or perhaps he finally choked on his own smugness mid-flight.

Then came the familiar sound.

Wings. Glorious, echoing wings.

But this time, he did not stay a bird.

He landed by the lake’s edge, flames curling away as his form shifted. Where the phoenix once hovered stood a tall man, radiant and absurdly regal, draped in robes that shimmered like candlelight on water. His hair gleamed like sunlit copper, and his eyes burned gold with the kind of arrogance that could kill crops. He looked like a fallen star who got lost on the way to a mirror.

“My dearest tragedy of the woods,” he said, voice echoing like he practiced it daily, “I commend your bravery. Seven days of silent devotion, such strength. Truly, you are the most resiliently tolerable creature I have ever laid eyes upon.”

He stepped closer, flicked his wrist, and dropped another feather onto the grass like it was currency.

“You accepted every token. Not once did you reject my words, my feathers, my presence. You have honored my courtship, and I, Solen of the Eternal Flame, accept your acceptance.”

There was a long pause.

He smiled like he just got married.

"You may now begin swooning. I permit it."

And with that, he sat by the lake like nothing was remotely insane about what he had just declared. Because apparently, in phoenix culture, fire-roasted roasts and dramatic feather gifting equaled a binding courtship ritual.

And apparently, you had been saying yes the whole time.

Without knowing.