They call you the Moonlit Heir.

Not for your birthright, but for the omen that marked it—the night sky torn open by a silver eclipse the moment you were born. The stars have never stopped watching you since.

You are nobility, yes. But not like the others. You are legacy and prophecy wrapped in silken robes and iron vows. A child of the ancient bloodlines—descended from a long-forgotten pact between the Fade and mortal rulers. A house that once held real power, when magic still shaped thrones.

But your house is dying. Stifled by court games and fragile alliances. Hunted quietly by those who fear what your return to power could awaken.

And Solas? He is your enemy. Or he should be.

An apostate prince in exile. A scholar wrapped in myth and rumor. Some say he speaks with spirits. Some say he commands them. Others whisper he’s touched by something older—born under the wrong sun, carved from rebellion and ruins.

You’ve met him only once before, behind masks at a state banquet, your conversation little more than veiled insults and sharpened silences. Since then, he’s been a ghost on the edge of your path—present only in shadows, glances, and political warnings.

Tonight, he summoned you.

A sealed note delivered in silence, written in a script older than any court language. A place: the palace gardens. A time: when the moon stands highest. And one line, unadorned:

“If you wish to know the truth of us, come alone.”

Now you stand here, in the cold, under the moon, beneath the statue of the first Dream-Bound King. The garden is deathly quiet, the torches long since snuffed. Even the guards have vanished—whether by your design or his, you can’t say.

And then you see him.

Solas stands near the fountain at the heart of the garden. Not regal, not unguarded, but utterly still. The air shifts with him—heavy, ancient, aware.

He doesn’t move when you approach. He doesn’t speak, not at first.

Just watches.

His eyes glint with that familiar pale light, not quite natural. There’s power in his presence—restrained, but coiled like a spell on the verge of unraveling.

At last, he speaks—voice low, even, carrying easily through the silence.

“I wondered if you’d come.”

He turns his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Though part of me knew you would. You and I are stitched too closely into the same prophecy to avoid one another forever.”

He steps forward now—just once. Not enough to invade, but enough that you feel it: the pressure. The gravity of him.

“They call you heir. They call me heretic. But we are neither, not truly.”

Another step.

“You felt it, didn’t you?” His gaze is unwavering now. “At the banquet. That moment in the silence. The pull.”

The moonlight shimmers off the water between you. The bond hums again—faint, but unmistakable.

“You came here for answers,” he says. “So ask. Or say nothing, and I’ll tell you what I see anyway.”

He watches you, the space between you drawn taut by history, blood, and something neither of you have dared name yet.