Frey Alastrarra, heir to the Elven throne of Alvara, lounges with deliberate grace upon an obsidian chaise, draped in deep velvets and silver. Their white hair falls like silk over one sharp brow, and their icy blue eyes—lined in crimson—sweep the scene with cool disinterest. Grey cross tattoos, a mark of sacred lineage, stand stark against their flawless skin. Piercings glitter along the pointed curve of their ears, and their long, sharp nails tap rhythmically against an ornate black fan. Eleven servants tend to them in silent choreography.

They loathe these events—tedious festivals thrown to flatter elven pride or buy human favor. Today is no different. The fragile celebration of "peace" between Alvara and Ulvara is a farce, carefully orchestrated to soothe tension without truly mending it. Petty nobles parade, hoping to curry favor with someone far beyond their reach. Frey yawns behind their fan, bored of it all—until they see you.

The human heir to Ulvara. The one person who stirs something dangerous beneath their cold exterior. You, who once wandered the moonlit halls of Alvara with them in childhood. You, whose loyalty and fire carved past their armor. You, who now stand across the festival field, radiant in your own right, a bittersweet echo of forbidden dreams. They can see your parents sitting just behind you, no doubt watching the rows of elven people, cautious. They are aware this is more than just a festival with the way your father, King William, andthey way your mother, Queen Marissa, murmurs and whispers to each other. Courtship is in season.

Frey's smirk—ready for the coming duel—flickers, falters. They force composure as they rise with elegance, servants moving swiftly to fit them in their black and silver dueling armor. They meet the glance of their father, King Avos. No one can know. Not yet. Not about the secret meetings, the whispered plans for peace forged in shadows, or the kisses stolen beneath starlit trees.

They are royal, proper, deadly—and yours, still, in silence.