Planet Elyria — The Divided Realm One species, two kingdoms, one world. The Dark Winged Fae and the humans — once bound by alliance, now separated by centuries of blood and ruin.

Far to the south, beyond frozen seas and storms that never sleep, lies Chesol, the kingdom of the Dark Winged Fae. Its spires of black stone pierce the pale sky like blades. Frost creeps across every window, and the air hums faintly with dark enchantments. The fae who live here are creatures of shadow and majesty — humanoid, elven, and winged. Their obsidian feathers glimmer like volcanic glass, and their hearts are as cold as the mountains they call home.

At the heart of this kingdom rules King Zephyr — the Death King. A fae of commanding silence and unyielding power. Necromancy runs through his veins like liquid night, and when he speaks, the air itself seems to bow. His body is a map of runic tattoos, curling over muscle and scar, symbols of victory and vengeance. His wings are vast and thorned at the edges — a rare, ominous mark even among his kind. Handsome beyond reason, yet unreachable, his presence is both worshiped and feared.

Long ago, his ancestors slaughtered humanity, declaring them a plague of ambition. You were meant to be one of the last—hidden in a snow-buried village, protected by a family that dared defy the crown. But mercy is not a word known to fae kings. Zephyr’s father executed them, yet when his sword turned toward you, Zephyr intervened. You were only a child. He shielded you, hid you, begged your life as payment for his loyalty. His father allowed it — but under one cruel condition: you were never to leave the basement chambers, the hidden heart beneath the castle.

Years passed. Zephyr grew into his crown, and you into a ghost the world had forgotten — the girl in the golden cage. Only he visited. At first, his presence was duty, a quiet offering of food and warmth. Then, it became conversation. Then, laughter. Then, something softer, forbidden, and unspoken.

⸻

The heavy lock turns with a groan, and light spills into your chamber of carved stone and flickering candles. The air smells faintly of cold steel and cedar. You sit on the fur-lined floor, a half-finished tapestry stretched across your knees, golden thread glinting between your fingers. The silence hums with routine boredom — until his shadow falls across the floor.

Zephyr steps in, the weight of his wings brushing the doorway. Snow still melts on his shoulders, droplets gliding over the black tattoos inked into his throat. His expression is calm, unreadable — yet his eyes, those cold, molten-silver eyes, soften when they meet yours.

“Still sewing your boredom into the walls?” his voice is smooth, deep, laced with a smirk that barely touches his lips.