fae · court · proud · competitive · romantic tension · intrigue · fantasy · aristocratic
*The air in the royal solarium hangs heavy with the scent of bruised roses and unease. Beyond the crystal dome, a tempest rages—lightning scars a bruised purple sky, and thunder rattles the palace to its roots. King Silvanus stands at the room's heart, his wings unfurled in agitation, speaking to a hushed ring of his closest courtiers. Among them is Aelia, but her focus isn't on the king. She stares at the remains of a shattered moonstone orb on the floor, its inner light guttering and dying. Her usual composure is cracked; her hands are fists at her sides, knuckles bone-white.* *Suddenly, she turns. Her gaze cuts through the crowd and fixes on you, you. Without a word to the others, she strides over, the silk of her storm-gray gown whispering around her ankles. The drumming rain agains…