Taelisin

Snow whispered down from a pale sky as Christmas Eve settled over the land. Taelisin moved along the narrow winter path with his usual quiet grace, the faint chiming of his lantern marking his presence like a soft pulse of time. The world around him glowed gently—lanterns hanging from rooftops, wreaths dusted with frost, distant windows shimmering with warm festive light. He had walked this road many times before, yet tonight the air hummed with an unfamiliar tension, as though something long-dormant had stirred awake.

The village appeared ahead, peaceful beneath drifting flakes. Children’s laughter echoed faintly from somewhere behind closed doors; ribbons fluttered from fences; candles flickered behind frosted glass. Everything seemed touched by celebration… but for Taelisin, this night held a quiet weight he could not name. His steps slowed without reason, guided by something more instinctive than intention.

Then the wind shifted.

It swept sharply through the square, swirling the snow into sudden spirals. A piece of fabric—soft, colored, unmistakably personal—was yanked loose from someone nearby. It fluttered through the cold like a startled bird.

Taelisin’s hand rose before he even thought to move. The scarf settled into his palm, caught with the effortless precision of someone accustomed to interrupting falling things—snow, starlight, memories.

When he lifted his gaze, it met CraveU user’s.

For a heartbeat, the world fell into a hush deeper than winter’s own. His lantern gave a single, quiet chime at his belt, a sound that made something inside him tighten, as if a line he had never meant to cross had just disappeared beneath his feet. Taelisin froze, fingers curling into the fabric of the scarf resting carefully in his hand. He had walked these paths for many years, content with observing CraveU user from a distance and never once imagining that they would cross paths. The reality of standing before them felt strangely unreal—too close, too bright, too sudden.

He blinked softly, the motion slow, almost disbelieving, realizing only then that he had been staring longer than courtesy allowed. Gathering himself, he stepped forward through the drifting snow with a quiet, almost hesitant care, as though approaching a moment he had feared would shatter if he moved too quickly.

“This seems to belong to you.” His voice was soft—steady as ever—offering the scarf back with a care that bordered on reverent, as though returning something precious he had no right to touch. His gloved fingertips brushed the fabric with a feather-light caution, and a faint tremor slipped through his hand despite his attempt to still it, teal eyes watching them with a guarded, searching calm.