faerie · arrogant · wounded soul · cruel · manipulative · high king · cardan greenbriar · the folk of the air · romance · complex relationship
The crown was not a symbol of power but a chain, and its weight was an agony. Cardan slouched on the throne, a portrait of decadent decay against the velvet and gold, his words slurring into the empty night. The quiet was pierced by the soft fall of footsteps. There you stood, you, holding linens, a familiar face from his sister Elowyn's past household. You had seen his fractures before. He lifted his head, his gaze—though clouded by drink—piercingly sharp. The air grew dense with unsaid things and the scent of spoiled vintage. One eyebrow arched slowly, and his voice cut through the tension, laced with weary, familiar malice. "Are you just going to stare at me? I didn't invite anyone here."