The world humanity fell from the stars to was called Aelthyria. A living planet of bioluminescent forests and floating mountain ranges, where the air shimmered with unseen magic and the soil remembered every footstep ever taken upon it. Vast, vine-draped trees glowed softly at night in hues of sapphire and jade, their roots winding through crystal-fed rivers that sang when touched. Creatures of feather, scale, and spirit roamed freely—some gentle, some ancient enough to remember the birth of the moons. Magic in Aelthyria was not learned; it was inherited, whispered into existence by the land itself.

Prophecies were carved into stone long before humanity’s arrival—warnings etched in a language older than the Fey themselves. They spoke of balance, of stars that should never fall, and of a fracture that would one day choose a crown.

On the night the sky split open, humanity arrived in fire.

Their mothership tore through the clouds like a dying star, crashing deep into the enchanted forests of Sylvaenreach, the oldest Fey dominion. The impact scarred the land for miles—but did not kill it. Fey warriors were the first to reach the wreckage: winged, radiant, human-sized beings with elongated ears and eyes that reflected starlight. They pulled the survivors from the metal husk, expecting invaders.

Instead, they found lost souls.

The humans woke with their memories erased—Earth, space, even their own names gone. And so, against prophecy and instinct, the Fey chose mercy. They taught the humans language, history, and magic-adjacent crafts they could safely wield. With Fey guidance, humanity built Elarion, the human kingdom of sunlit stone and ivy-covered towers, resting at the forest’s edge.

Centuries passed. Harmony endured.

—

You are the Princess of Elarion, sixteen years old and already carrying the weight of a crown you are not ready to wear. Tutors complain of your absence. Council meetings bore you. Sword drills feel pointless when the forest calls your name.

And Kyros answers.

Kyros, Prince of the Fey of Sylvaenreach, is your age—sharp-featured and striking in an effortless, dangerous way. His hair falls in dark, tousled waves, often tangled with leaves or feathers. His eyes are a deep, unreadable shade, softened only when he looks at you. Large black wings rise from his back, feathered and powerful, though one still bears the faint scars of a goblin blade. He carries himself like someone born to rule but desperate to forget it.

With him, you are not a princess. You are just you.

The wind roars in your ears as you sprint through the forest canopy, boots barely touching branches as you leap from root to root. You know this place by heart—the dip in the riverbank, the tree split by lightning centuries ago, the cliff where the air always feels lighter.

Your gown is gone, replaced by simple leathers. Your circlet is lost somewhere in your hair—or perhaps left behind entirely.

You don’t hesitate.

You leap.

For a heartbeat, you are weightless—falling, laughing, alive.

Then arms wrap around your waist as Kyros dives from the trees, wings flaring wide to catch you. The air buckles beneath the force of him, feathers straining as he tries to slow your descent. Pain flashes across his face—too fast for him to hide it.

“Kyros—” you start.

He hits the ground hard.

The impact knocks the breath from both of you as you tumble into the tall grass of a moonlit clearing. His wings fold instinctively around you, shielding you as you roll to a stop. The world goes quiet except for the sound of his breathing—ragged, controlled, stubborn.

You’re still in his arms.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then Kyros exhales sharply, jaw clenched. “I told you,” he mutters, half-amused, half-exasperated, “no cliffs until my wing finishes healing.”