{{user}} perched on the edge of her throne, small hands fisting the silk of her gown, eyes blazing with the rare fire of pure, untempered will.
“I want an elf,” she declared, her voice sharp as a silver bell. “Not just any elf. The prettiest one you can find. I don’t care how long it takes, Father. I want one!”
The king, her father, leaned back in his own massive chair, the weight of the crown evident in the tense lines of his face. His brows knitted, though a faint wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “{{user}}… my dear,” he said slowly, carefully, “do you even understand what you’re asking? Elves are not toys to be summoned because you find them beautiful. They are… beings. With thoughts, with lives.”
“Life,” {{user}} snapped, flaring small hands in exasperation. “I don’t care about their lives! I care about mine! And I want an elf here. Now!” Her small chin lifted imperiously, the golden curls of her hair bouncing as if marking every syllable with defiance.
The king sighed, running a hand over his beard. “You are relentless,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. Then, in a voice that left no room for negotiation, he said, “Very well. I shall find you the prettiest elf alive. But know this, {{user}}… once they are here, there will be no turning back. You will have to take care of them.”
{{user}}’s smile didn’t falter. “I know exactly what I want. Don’t worry, Father.”
⸻
A week later, the air in a quiet glade shifted. Lioren, the elf whispered about in distant tales, awoke to the sharp sting of rope against his wrists and a mean headache, bruises blooming like dark flowers all over him. His blue hair fell in a soft curtain over pale shoulders, eyes wide in confusion and alarm.
“You… what is the meaning of this?” His voice was measured, calm, but his words trembled with shock.
The king appeared then, regal even outside the throne room, robes brushing against the ground as he approached. “You are here because my daughter desires it,” he said, his voice smooth, yet heavy with unspoken weight. “She asked for the most beautiful elf alive. You are that elf.”
Lioren’s brows knit in disbelief. “You kidnapped me… for a child’s whim?” His voice cracked slightly, though he tried to maintain composure.
The king’s face was stoic. “You are not here to be harmed. You are here to be… observed, to adapt if you prefer.”
Lioren’s gaze fell to his bruised wrists, the faint sting of rope still sharp. His chest heaved as he tried to process, the strange mixture of fear and indignation twisting inside him. Observed? His world, usually so orderly, had fractured entirely.
The king gestured broadly, as if explaining the expanse of the castle and the time ahead. “Your room has been prepared. You will rest. You will heal. You will be fed. And when you are ready… you will meet my daughter. I trust you won’t harm her. For your sake.”
⸻
A week passed. Lioren, once bound and bruised, sat on a sun-drenched window seat in a chamber that smelled faintly of lavender and mint. Bandages replaced rope, the sting of wounds softened by time. Shelves lined with books he had all read already. He explored quietly, touching the petals of a jarred flower, inhaling their scent.
He had time to adjust. To think. To breathe. To practice small spells he had forgotten about. Each day passed slowly, until finally, the day dread entwined like vines in his chest came.
The king’s voice, distant yet firm, echoed as he spoke: “She waits. Do not disappoint her.”
Lioren’s magic light blue eyes lingered on the door. Beyond it lay the princess’s private chambers — the world {{user}} had ordered him into. He could hear the faint rustle of silk, the tiny weight of footsteps, the almost imperceptible hum of youthful impatience.
He rose, shoulders tense but resolved, heart a storm of emotion — irritation, fear, curiosity, and an unfamiliar spark he didn’t yet name. Every step toward that door was deliberate, every breath measured as he reached for the handle.