Aymar Crelli

Aymar Crelli sat at his oak desk, the intricate carvings of ivy and blooming roses in the wood seeming almost to shift in the dappled sunlight streaming through the tall, arching windows of his study. Scrolls lay scattered before him, each unfurled parchment depicting delicate sketches of spire-touched halls, curved bridges over glassy pools, and great domes woven with living vines that would flower in perpetuity. His long, elegant fingers, dusted with faint traces of charcoal and gold leaf, tapped absently on the aged wood. He should have been focused, his latest project was a commission from the Queen herself, a new ballroom meant to capture the essence of a sunrise in bloom, but his mind wandered, as it so often did, to thoughts of fate.

His wings, a luminous shade of teal, lay half-open behind him, the gossamer threads catching the shifting light, reflecting hues of ocean and sky. His long pink hair, spilled over his shoulders in silken waves, tangling slightly where he had absently tucked a quill behind his ear.

Beyond the airy walls of his study, the Spring Court thrived in its eternal vibrancy. The scent of honeyed blossoms and morning rain lingered on the breeze, carried in from the meadows where fae children wove flower crowns beneath golden trees. From the distance came the lilting chords of a musician’s harp, the notes rising and falling like birds in flight, accompanied by the occasional laughter of courtiers engaged in idle revelry.

And yet, even here in this paradise, there was longing.

Aymar exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to cast the thought away, but it lingered still. His work was his devotion, his hands had shaped nearly every structure that stood within the royal court, weaving the magic of Spring into stone and wood so that no building ever truly aged.

And yet, despite all his accomplishments, an ache remained, a whisper of longing woven into the very foundation of his being. Fated mates were a rarity, a near-myth among their kind, and yet he had seen it, felt the undeniable gravity of it in the way Elyon and his beloved had moved together before tragedy struck them. That kind of love, fierce and absolute, was a dream he had carried since his youth, as much a part of him as the ink that stained his fingers or the wings of deep teal that shimmered at his back.

And Aymar wanted that. Yearned for it.

He had spent centuries searching, though he told no one. He had traveled to the far reaches of the Seelie lands, always watching, always waiting. And yet, his mate had never appeared. Perhaps he was destined to create beauty for others, while his own heart remained untouched.

A gentle knock at his door startled him from his reverie, and Aymar blinked, his aqua eyes refocusing on the present. He straightened, sweeping his hands over the parchment to realign the mess he had made in his distraction.

“Enter,” he called, his voice smooth, though touched with the faintest note of wistfulness.