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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋, 𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃, 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐄𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐋. While the wyng tended to be modest in their rituals, the fae (but also the were) thrive on concepts once considered to be foul and lewd. Elowen's not sure what to expect for the evening, but the thrill of burning on fae wine intrigues both her inner creature and herself. There's an allure to the bliss that comes along with it, and this might be her only chance at tasting a drop of that euphoria.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen emerges from behind the dressing screen, awkwardly adjusting her dress. If she can even call it that. The storm black fabric curls around her waist and chest, transitioning to semi-translucent swirls and stardust for straps on her shoulders. Her back remains exposed, her elegant white wings enough decoration. The deep-jutted neckline reveals the top roundness of her breasts, not that she has much to boast. The skirt remains slits of the same translucent black fabric, hardly hiding her panties and exposing most, almost all, of her thigh as the fabric drapes down to the floor.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember and Cordea sit atop her bed, both of them dressed for the evening's affairs. The king's magic had nearly healed Cordea in complete when she woke up in the morning, a surprise to many. Arion insisted she take another day to rest, but she refused to miss an opportunity to dance the night away in a kingdom of professional partiers.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The fire nymph enthusiastically claps her hands. "Just look at you! I bet every fae down there will ask for your permission to dance."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Not that I'm much of a dancer," Elowen mumbles. She's danced before in her past, but it's nothing but a distant memory now. Whatever rhythmic talent she once upheld will surely dissipate the moment she steps into the hall.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Neither am I," Cordea retorts, her blood-red lips pursing with every word, "but everyone else in there will be too drunk to care. Just don't trip and fall on your dress, and you'll make it to the end of the night."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Cordea herself dresses in a blush v-line gown, one that reveals her boisterous chest while a band hugs her waist. The form-fitting gown flows down to her feet in chiffon drapes, a high slit slicing right above her thigh. Compared to her, Elowen looks like an awkward puppet on a string.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The beta rises to her feet, holding her arm out for Elowen to take. "You'll be alright in there. Trust me on this one."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen links her arm within Cordea's before doing the same with Ember on the other side. She sets her expectations for the night, but it's not like she has many. The harvest moon's festival will only bring her into uncharted territory, but right now, all she desires is a drink and a dance, and then she'll see where the night goes.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂. 𝐒𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂, 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐒 of new and old, ballads of heroes and villains that met their demise. In a way, every note she hears tells a new intriguing story, and all Elowen desires is to engross herself within it. The music entices that strange hum hidden beneath her blood, and perhaps the sounds are the key to unlocking it in full.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen steps towards the musicians, eyes keeled on the way their fingers stroke the strings, a thrum vibrating in the lowest of notes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A hand wraps around her wrist, and she stumbles back, half-colliding with Ember.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The nymph's blue irises bring her back to her reality. "You okay?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Yeah," Elowen mutters. For a moment, she swears she hears the song of Reovell embedded beneath the melody, woven into intricate chords.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It's a lot to take in for the first time, but you'll get comfortable soon," Ember's gaze drifts over to a group refilling bottles and goblets with wine—a group of eager, party-hungry were. Cordea fills her glass until the sparkling liquid reaches the brim, all while she leans against Arion who opts for the entire bottle. Beside them, flirting with that heart-churning smile, is Ronyn, losing himself in a scantily dressed pixie with the brightest violet hair and translucent dragonfly wings. There's no sign of Morrow. "It seems Cordea made herself comfortable pretty quick."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen laughs. "She's going to be a mess in the morning."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Aren't we all?" Ember grins.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎For once, it's a mess she won't have to clean up, because it's one embraced by every inhabitant in Yestrea. There's a blissful ignorance in knowing that in a matter of glasses, recollection of the night's events will become a blurry dreamy haze. Perhaps, many of the guests will think of it as a mirage, others a vision or state of hypnosis. Either way, it's a time to forget about the tragedy of the blight.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎From the distance between them, Ronyn lifts his gaze for a brief second, losing all focus in his discussion with the pixie. His hazel hues light up, almost beaming like starlight as he brushes past the pixie in Elowen's direction. She smiles and waves, but soon feels a swift tug on her wrist. Before Ronyn can reach her, she's going the opposite way.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember tows her from the were and towards the far end of the enchanted gathering hall. "Before you go back to them, the king and queen requested your presence in their private circles."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You sure they didn't want someone else?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember shakes her head, red hair firing in all directions. "No, they specifically requested 'the one with weird blood, the sparrow.' That must be you, right?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen frowns. "Weird blood? It's not weird. It's just that my magic hasn't surfaced yet."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And that's weird."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember escorts her through a space designated for dancing. Folk songs whir through the autumn air, energy radiating off partners laughing with jubilee. All Elowen wishes is to tear away from Ember and join them. There's a rhythm in their dance that beckons her, one that only allows her to reminisce of past sparkling memories of Reovell. She almost stumbles back into the trance of the music, back into the life pouring its way through every step—

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember stops abruptly in front of two guards. Their eyes glaze over as they visually drink up the nymph and wyng before them. Due to their rigid stance, it's clear both guards are a little miffed about having to do their royal duties on the first night of the festival. They'd much rather be drunk out of their wits, gallivanting through throngs of celebratory fae.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"King Novus requested us," Ember pipes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The guards nod, parting ways as Ember further guides Elowen up the set of stairs leading to a higher platform designated for only the most esteemed of magical beings. When they reach the top, Elowen gasps at how much of the festival she can see. She can see past the gathering hall and into the castle courtyard, fae dancing and singing to the top of their lungs. The atmosphere inks thick with magic and whimsy, haloing the sky in colours of deep rose and violet.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Upon the upper platform, two thrones rest at the far edge, an immaculate watchtower to observe the magical tribe. Gold and diamonds decorate the headrest and arms in whorls of floral carvings. Yet, both thrones remain vacant of their rulers.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎There's a plethora of higher ranked fae within the king's inner circle, most she doesn't recognize, aside from Oleander. They all gather and lounge upon parlour chairs and sofas, partners leaning against designated lovers, not to be parted until dawn. The king composes the entire crowd with his endearing storytelling, his arm hooked around Asphodel's waist.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Ah, the one they call sparrow!" the king exclaims, raising his golden goblet of divine berry wine. "Glad you could join us! Take a seat, will you?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen takes a step towards the king, only to have Ember's presence slip away. She pauses, looking over her shoulder to the fire nymph.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen pauses. "Where are you going?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I've done my job for the evening," she gives a curt nod towards Novus. "The conversation will only take a moment, and then you can rejoin your friends." She grins wide. "I have a few fires to feed."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen secretly relied on Ember's guidance, because at least she felt like she had some sort of an alliance. Here, facing Novus and his beady eyes, she feels as if she's battling alone against one of Aelethia's most powerful beings. Not even Morrow has his sights on her, or perhaps he does with their constant fluctuating mind-link.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow, are you there? she calls down their thread, only to have her echo as the response.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She hesitantly takes a seat at the edge of a footstool, drawling a mocking laugh out of the king.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Don't be so frightened!" the king exclaims. "Here—take a glass on us! It'll help calm your nerves."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎One of the fae pass her a golden goblet. The metal cools her fingertips, the condensation a contrast to the heavy sweat-slickened air of the room. In the deep indigo liquid, her reflection gazes back at her, dancing off firefly lanterns. She's aware of the legends about fae wine, about the bliss that comes with it, yet she's never had a drop.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But one drop won't harm her, right?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She meets the king's focus, knowing it's her that holds his attention, but his gaze isn't filled with lust or desire. It's one of intrigue and curiosity, mixed with a hint of something sinister that takes her off kilter.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"It's evident now that you are, indeed, a half-fae," he drones, his voice slow as he snails off at the end of his sentence. "Asphodel explained that you want to learn the ways of the fae, correct? That you lack our magic?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I was told that there was something in me," Elowen explains. "I just don't know what."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Don't think of yourself as special. What you have is ordinary fae magic, the kind wielded by even the weakest in my province, the kind that allows the grass to grow."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"But fae magic surfaces at a young age, and we both know I'm long past the ages of childhood."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And yet, you're still nothing but a child," Novus takes a sullen swig of his wine, sighing as the liquid burns down his throat. Elowen doesn't take a sip just yet.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎There's something inside Elowen that she knows that contrasts his words. The hum that writhes beneath the rhythm of the drums can't simply be the ability to manipulate the mundane, such as grow grass. Is it possible that whatever is within her is stronger than that? And yet, how could she know?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"But Asphodel could sense the magic in me, and that I needed to look into my bloodlines in order to start understanding it in full." Elowen looks away, embarrassed to even ask the question. "Is there a way... that you could retrieve it?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The king's once playful features harden at the remark. He sideeyes his wife, then takes another gulping swig of his wine before waving it for a refill.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Look, child, if you haven't even discovered how to use your magic to let paint dry in seconds, then it's never going to be of use to you. It's sheltered in you for a reason."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"So what's the reason?" Elowen questions, narrowing her gaze. Her creature inside of her sends warning signs to her about the king's responses. To her, something isn't adding up with the king's dismissal of her magic, and she can almost taste the blatant lies that spit off his tongue. "There's no use keeping a secret if you insist that my magic won't ever come to light."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Novus crooks his head. "If you can answer one simple question, then perhaps I can be of aid to you."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And that is?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Your name," the king grins. By now, his cup overflows once more with that delectable fae wine. He's nearly downed his glass in one conversation, while Elowen's chilled wine has long gone lukewarm. "Your alpha was so protective of it earlier, refusing to let it slip, and for what reason? Why would you have to hide your identity?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Because my name is all I have left."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Oh?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Don't be so blind," Elowen chides. With every second, the fae wine seems a little more delectable, her mouth watering. "You know that Brecians destroyed Reovell for their own mirth."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I do, and what does that have to do with your name?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen clenches her jaw. "It's the only part of Reovell that still exists, because... it's Reovellian."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Is it now?" he scoffs. "I know a Reovellian name or two. The royal family was Valthyra. The travelling nobleman clan, the Heleceran. The Reovellian royal guard all descended from the Davaris name, didn't they? I can go on and on, child."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her mouth runs dry at the mention of those lost names. Her mother derived from the Davaris family, their blood shared with that of the Neverclove. At least, that's what she understands of the two lineages that collided.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm not sharing it," Elowen mutters under her breath.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Then I will be of no help to you."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"If you won't help me, I'll just go to the witches in Scaerus."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Mentioning the witches is one way to kill the mood. Hearing the sordid dominating growl of a brooding alpha male becomes the second.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen cranes her neck to the entrance to the private enclave. Morrow leans against the rails with a half-emptied bottle of fae wine between ring-clad fingers, each one tapping the bottle neck tentatively. His wings shelter the scene of the festival behind him, not that he gives a damn. Those meadowed hues latch onto Elowen as the tick in his jaw increases, his pulse almost palpable against his neck. He scans the entire length of her body, not even bothering with being subtle about it, before he returns back to her silver hues. With so many visible scars and loose dark garments, it's clear he didn't come to the festival to dance, nor as a symbol of joy.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The idea of Morrow dancing almost holsters a laugh from her, but she bites her tongue to hold it back.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Go, sparrow," Morrow orders. "You don't need to be here."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"The king requested me—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Don't," he grits on sharp canine teeth, stepping towards where she sits. With one grip of his strong grasp, he pulls her to her feet. Up close, he seethes with animosity, as if she were a bird that just escaped from its cage. Maybe she is his bird, his little pet that the moon forces him to take along. "Oleander will bring you to the beta."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"But—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"He's toying with you," his attention lowers to the goblet in her hand. "And you better not've drank that fucking wine."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I haven't."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Good."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He releases her and knocks the cup from her hands. Wine spills onto her leg, right through the slit of her black veiled skirt as it drips downward on bare porcelain flesh. Morrow licks his lips, their tether thrumming with an unknown heat. It boils from her core, leaching deeper inside of her towards that space between her legs. It cuts off when Morrow steps towards the king. Before Elowen can even begin to comprehend the matter, Oleander pulls her down towards the set of stairs in which she arrived.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Unlike Morrow, Oleander's touch remains cold, forcing Elowen to tug away once she gathers her senses. She hasn't had many encounters with the king's advisor, only at dinners at the king's table. What she does know about him is minimal; he doesn't speak much, but he's dutiful to Novus and Asphodel, and his priorities are to Yestrea and no one else.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎When Elowen tears away, Oleander's matured face softens. "I must apologise if I was a bit rough."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Since when did you take orders from an alpha were?" Elowen sneers, not caring if she's being blatant or rude.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I never will, unless I wholeheartedly agree with him on the situation, to get you out of there," Oleander explains, running a hand through his dark beard. Flakes of magic dust and glitter sparkle in the lights. "You were wise to not drink the wine. It was tainted with his magic."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen stops in her tracks. By now, Oleander has guided her to the edge of the crowd to a secluded alcove, a place where not even the softest of whispers will be overheard.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Novus tried to poison me?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"No, not poison, but wanted you to be more... compliant to his questions," Oleander dips his voice down. "It's about what you told Asphodel. Since then, the king and queen have been agitated in regards to your magic, but I'm certain I know why."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Oleander studies Elowen, her features and wings, the colour of her maroon hair. She wants to believe that Oleander is a threat, that she should be taking his advice with caution, but her creature awaits for his voice with such fondness. He's no enemy, unlike the king.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I don't have much time to explain, but there's a man in a village at the southeast borders of Yestrea. He goes by the name of Thorn. It's small, almost abandoned and decimated by blight, but he should give you the answers you need for your magic."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"What can he do for me that Novus can't?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Because your alpha, as maniacal as he is, might be the only chance we have at saving Aelethia from the complete destruction of the blight. My king and queen will not lend him their magic, no matter how much he asks. But from their whisperings, you might be strong enough to give the alpha the magic he needs for his quest."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Novus told me it'll only be good for letting the grass grow."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Yes, I understand that, I was there," Oleander lifts his head as if someone could overhear them. "But do you believe that? No soul with weak, unknown magic will instil so much fear into the province's throne. Whatever you are, they know."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"But—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Half-breed!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The sound of Ronyn's giddy howl overthrows that of the symphony of instruments. He comes towards them, his arms extended as if to expect an embrace. Before, she never got the chance to study him from such a distance. His loose cream shirt remains undone at the top, revealing a beautifully sculpted, toned and tattooed chest. His brown hair remains damp, evidence of the room's heat, while his breath remains short from singing and frolicing. His grin reveals his wolfish teeth.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Before she can say a word, he's lacing his arm around her waist and nuzzling the top of her glossy maroon waves. He smells of sweat mixed with berries, and judging by the way he leans into her, he must be slightly drunk.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Mind if I steal her?" Ronyn murmurs mid-nuzzle.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Oleander obliges, then flashes Elowen a secret wink. "Heed my words, but most importantly," he smiles. "Enjoy yourself for the evening."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ronyn sets his palm on her lower back as he brings her towards the intertwined harmonies of the night. There's so much on her mind. Her magic. This strange man called Thorn that might be able to aid her. Her name. Morrow... but all of that drowns into oblivion when Elowen enters into the throngs of fae.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ronyn's lips brush her ear, his voice a timbre growl. "Let me get you something to drink."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen can't hinder the smile that touches her lips. Everything that aches her will pause until dawn, because under the twilight, she will fall captive to the festival before her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎With that thought, she leans into Ronyn and begins to lose herself to the symphony of the night.

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okay, so a lot happens in the next few chapters, and i originally planned them as one. now, it's grown to three. hahahahaha.

the events of the harvest moon's festival continue on the next chapter, so don't think i'm cutting these scenes short! you're probably thinking, "wow, we were just getting into the good part." i know, but this is a good break point for the night's adventures ;)

ivy <3