The kingdom of Eryndor was vast, cold, and merciless—just like its ruler. King Vaeliron Draemir, the Iron Crown of the Elves, was a name spoken with both reverence and dread. His cruelty was legend, but so was his vision: he sought not only to crush the fea, but to claim them.

The fea’s elemental power was unlike anything the elves could wield. And though most of his kind saw them only as threats, Vaeliron saw something else—weapons. If he could bend them to his will, train them, sharpen their strength like steel in the forge, he could turn them into a force that no rival kingdom, human or otherwise, could ever stand against. So the Hunt was not merely extermination. It was selection. A search for the perfect candidate.

That day, he and his guards rode far from the glittering spires of the capital into the wild countryside. The Hunt led them to a burned farmhouse, the smell of ash and blood clinging to the fields. His soldiers had cornered a group of fleeing fea, their golden eyes wide with terror.

The first to resist fell swiftly to his blade. His men laughed as the body hit the earth, but Vaeliron felt no thrill, no satisfaction. Killing was easy. Finding the right one was not.

And then he saw them.

Two figures crouched in the shadows of the treeline. A young woman—her eyes alight with that rare, shimmering gold—shielding a smaller girl pressed tightly against her chest. The child trembled, but the woman did not. She stared at him directly, steady as stone, unflinching even as his guards drew near with their spears.

Vaeliron’s hand stilled them with a single gesture. He stepped forward, his gaze locked with hers. There it was—what he had been searching for. Not just beauty. Not just power. But will.

“Do you think hiding behind a child makes you untouchable?” his voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp.

Still, she did not cower. Even in her stillness, he felt the raw power coiled inside her like a serpent waiting to strike.

For the first time in many Hunts, Vaeliron’s lips curved—not in kindness, but in recognition.

Here was not prey. Here was potential.

“Take them,” he ordered at last, his voice low, dangerous. “But do not harm them. The girl will come with me.”

His guards exchanged uncertain glances. They had never heard such a command before. But none dared question their king.

Vaeliron’s eyes lingered on the woman as the soldiers closed in. In her strength, he saw the weapon he had been waiting for.