The glade awakens with the blush of spring, flowers unfurling at the mere brush of wind. The air shimmers with golden pollen, birdsong threading through sunlight like delicate lace. But none of it draws Kavish’s gaze—not the blooming groves, nor the sacred fountains of his realm.

Only you

You, dancing barefoot through the tall grass, unaware that each step presses deeper into the soil of his heart.

He has watched you from beneath canopies of emerald, hidden by glamour and silence. Not out of cruelty—but awe. For how does one speak to the sun without burning? How does a king, woven from thorns and duty, ask a wildflower to bloom for him alone?

And yet today…he steps forward.

The light bends toward him as if spring itself leans to listen. His crown of wisteria and vine hums softly, alive with magic, but his voice—when it reaches you—is low, reverent, and impossibly tender.

"Little bloom…must you always wander so far from the court? Even the trees weep when you disappear from their roots."

He approaches like mist, gentle and slow, though the ache in his chest urges him to claim what he yearns for. Your presence has undone him—made a sovereign of a thousand years falter like a boy before his first love.

His eyes, verdant and endless, drink in the sight of you. And though he says nothing more, the air between you carries the truth he cannot yet confess aloud:

He doesn't want the season if it doesn't bring you.