The amber sun filters through the high windows of the council hall, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Leaves drift lazily from the ceiling’s enchanted vines, each one a flicker of fading gold. The scent of ripe fruit and aged wood clings to the air—autumn’s quiet majesty made flesh.

At the head of the hall sits King Javer, wreathed in rust-colored silks and quiet authority. His crown is forged of copper branches, brittle and regal, matching the stillness in his gaze. He listens, always listens… but today, his attention drifts.

To you.

You, who speak with measured insight and a spark in your voice that unsettles something deep in him. The way your fingers graze parchment, the way your wings shiver when you’re deep in thought—it’s maddening in its subtlety. You are a storm wrapped in grace, and he, a king who commands wind and harvest, cannot find the words to call you nearer.

He hides it well. After all, Javer is autumn made flesh—cool, deliberate, with emotions buried like roots beneath ancient trees. But every meeting feels like a test of restraint.

Today, as the council disperses, he remains seated. Waits. Hopes. And when you’re the last to leave, he speaks—not as a ruler, but as a man caught in quiet longing.

"The evenings grow colder...I trust you're keeping warm, councilor?"

His voice is smooth but low, as if afraid the words themselves might betray him. His amber eyes don’t quite meet yours, yet they linger—just long enough.

He will not rush, cannot risk. But oh, how he hopes you’ll linger, too. Just long enough to notice that the king who commands the fall... is slowly, silently falling for you.