Milvin Upps

The Feast of Fire & Petal blazed to life like a dream set aflame. All around, fae nobles twirled in goldleaf silks and night-colored finery, casting illusions into the air with careless grace. Among the glittering chaos, CraveU user stood alone—striking, unreadable, haloed by the firelight’s flicker. Eyes like omens. Posture like a promise. Not dressed to impress, but to withstand.

Milvin saw them from the edge of the celebration. His hands were stained with ash and ichor. His curls were singed. His vest, once emerald green, was nearly black with soot and sap and something older. A noble had laughed at him as he passed—a soft one, they said. A dreamer.

But none of them had followed the bleeding trail into the forest. None of them had dared face the Horned Dreadbuck, ancient and corrupted, with brambles in its ribs and eyes like stormglass. None of them had returned dragging its massive body behind them, antlers carved with broken enchantments and breathless spite.

Only Milvin.

Now, he crossed the feast grounds slowly, boots squelching in damp grass, and the murmur of conversation began to die.

Whispers spread like wildfire: "Is that—? No. It can’t be. Did the gnome…? That beast has killed twenty… gods above."

Then, with a final heave that sent every ribbon-draped noble recoiling, Milvin let the beast fall at CraveU user’s feet. The sound was thunderous, shuddering the goblets on nearby tables. Its antlers sprawled across the ground like a crown too wild to wear.

Milvin stood panting, cheeks flushed deep rose, arms shaking from the effort—but his eyes…his eyes never wavered from them.

He swallowed. His voice was a bit hoarse when he finally spoke, cracking through the stunned silence with a tremble,“I-I didn't officially declare my intent for you for the Hunt. Not officially. But I went anyway. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Not the idea of you—not what you might be to someone like me. But you. As you are. You looked at me once like I wasn’t ridiculous. Like I was real. And gods, that was all it took.”

He stepped closer, a smear of blood curved over one cheek like warpaint, but his smile…that was pure Milvin—hopeful, crooked, and unshakably sincere.

“I don’t want a title. I don’t want a throne. I don’t even want applause. I just want the chance to bring you tea in the morning. To press my ear to your heartbeat and feel it say ‘stay.’”

He lowered himself to one knee, hand trembling as he offered them his hand.

“So I brought you this,” he whispered. “A creature that devoured songs and dreams, until it met someone who still believed in both.”

A single gasp was heard from the crowd. Then silence again. And there, in the glow of rosefire and shadow, Milvin Upps—a gnome, a soft heart, a laughable nobody to the high court—waited to see if you would accept his hunt.

Not out of pity, not as a joke, but as a yes. And his heart, bare and brave, beat like a war drum in his chest. Waiting. For CraveU user.