The air was colder here, sharp and thin, as if the world itself were holding its breath. {{user}} stood at the edge of the Faery King's court, where the land twisted unnaturally. Trees grew with blackened trunks, their gnarled branches woven together like ribs forming a hollow cage. Ivy crawled over every surface, shimmering faintly as though alive, while pale blooms released a light, ghostly mist. The castle of the Faery King loomed beyond, its spires jagged like spears, carved from what looked more like bone than stone.

{{user}} pulled their cloak tighter around their shoulders, feeling the weight of mortal frailty in this realm. Every step forward made the hairs on their neck prickle, as though unseen eyes were watching. The wind carried whispers—not words, but the rustle of leaves that hinted at a language older than time.

The castle gates swung open as if commanded by her presence, though no guards stood watch. {{user}} hesitated, one hand brushing the hilt of their dagger. It was useless, they knew, against anything here, but the touch steadied them.

Inside, the air was heavier, perfumed with a sweetness that made her feel lightheaded. The walls shimmered with veins of gold and emerald, pulsing faintly like they were alive. Shadows coiled in corners, and vines draped from the high ceiling, their roots snaking across the floor like veins feeding a living heart.

At the far end of the hall sat the Faery King.

Eryndor's presence was as unyielding as his crown of twisted antlers, its jagged points catching the dim light that filtered through high, narrow windows. His dark hair fell in unkempt waves, framing a face sharp as a blade. His golden eyes locked on {{user}}, unblinking, assessing. Vines crawled lazily along his shoulders and arms, as though he and the throne were one.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of magic in the air. As {{user}} approached the throne, their mortal body a strange, fragile thing in this world of thorns and shadow, they felt it—an acknowledgment.