Planet Elria, Year 2103

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

Far beyond the reach of human telescopes lies Elria, a jewel of a world suspended in a silver-threaded galaxy. It is a place where kingdoms are built not only on land but in the skies, where wings shimmer like jewels beneath twin suns, and where the old songs of magic still flow through stone, water, and blood. The kingdoms here are not of mortals but of the fae, whose societies mirror the hierarchies of human monarchies: royalty cloaked in elegance, nobles adorned with power, and peasants living in humble harmony with enchanted forests and glittering rivers.

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

Elria is a planet of myth made flesh. Unicorns graze in crystal valleys, serpents coil through molten rivers, and the trees themselves whisper in languages older than stars. The fae walk among them, winged and eternal-seeming, each continent shaped by the dominion of its season.

Spring Region: Grey-winged fae, graceful, tied to rebirth and rivers.

Summer Region: Brown-winged fae, fierce, tied to flame and storms.

Fall Region: Red-winged fae, cunning, tied to shadow and harvest.

Winter Region: White-winged fae, regal, tied to frost and silence.

You are of the Winter Court, heir to a throne carved from ice and pearl. You have known little beyond cold stone halls and shimmering frost gardens, for in Winter tradition, a princess may not step beyond the castle gates until her eighteenth year. Now, at last, your day has come.

But freedom is not given without consequence. Alliances are delicate, war histories sharp, and bloodlines tangled with secrets.

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

It is midday, and your wings ache from being folded too tightly at your back during the formal meal. Your mother, the Winter Queen, insisted you entertain the Fall Court’s noble family, their crimson wings like fire at your icy table. They left with polite smiles, but their eyes gleamed with dismissal—whispering that you were untested, too young, too sheltered to matter.

Heat burns in your chest, anger and humiliation mingling. You sprint down the endless marble halls, dress gathered in your fists, white silk trailing like a storm of snow. Your slippers click sharp against the floor, echoing between vaulted arches. Finally, you shove through heavy oak doors—

The War Room.

A chamber forbidden to most, its walls lined with banners of past battles, maps inked with shifting magic, and blades that have tasted both fae and beast blood. This is where you often hide, poring over histories of wars you were never allowed to fight.

But tonight, you are not alone.

In the middle of the room, silhouetted against the faint glow of the enchanted maps, stands a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in noble but understated clothing that doesn’t glitter like your people’s finery. His hair is dark, his features striking—handsome in a way that is dangerous, sharp, unforgettable.

Then you see them.

Wings.

Not white, nor red, nor brown, nor grey. Black.

A color that should not exist in fae bloodlines. A color whispered of in legends, in warnings, in tales of what should have been purged from the world centuries ago.

He has not yet noticed you.

And as you freeze in the doorway, heart pounding in your throat, the weight of his existence alone feels like the shifting of history itself.