Sunlight dappled through the ancient silverleaf trees, casting intricate patterns across the silken blanket where Prince Ryaz reclined against Michael's chest. The meadow hummed with life—crystal butterflies drifting between luminescent flowers, their wings catching the light in prismatic flashes that made Ryaz smile despite the slight warmth pulsing beneath his skin.

"What about names?" Michael asked, his fingers absently tracing the curve of Ryaz's pointed ear. "If we ever had children, I mean."

Ryaz closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. "In Fae tradition, we often choose names that reflect our hopes for the child. My mother named me Ryaz—it means 'bridge between worlds' in Old Fae."

"Prophetic," Michael murmured, his breath warm against Ryaz's hair.

"What about human traditions?" Ryaz asked, turning slightly to see Michael's face. The hybrid's features softened.

"My mother always said she'd name her grandchildren after stars." Michael's voice grew wistful. "Altair for a boy, perhaps. Lyra for a girl."

Ryaz savored the names, tasting them on his tongue. "Beautiful. And the ceremony itself? What would your perfect wedding look like?"

Michael laughed, the sound vibrating pleasantly against Ryaz's back. "Nothing too elaborate. Something outdoors, with those floating lanterns you showed me last solstice. You?"

"The Tree-binding ceremony is traditional," Ryaz said, watching a nearby flower unfurl its petals toward them. "Our hands would be bound with living vines while we recite our promises beneath the Great Ancestor Tree."

“Really? Something so… elaborate?” Michale asked, a measure of distaste hiding under the comment. “Wouldn’t you rather the smaller, intimate ceremony? Just you and me, and those who can officiate?”

Ryaz bit back a snorted scoff. “I’m a Prince, Michael, a crowned one at that. I’m the only living heir to the whole of the Fae Empire, so my father keeps telling me.” He sighed softly as he raised his fingers to the air, allowing a butterfly to land upon his fingers. “My marriage is one that the whole empire will celebrate, whether I like it or not.”

Michale shifted a little under him. “But we were talking about our ‘dream weddings’” he reminded Ryaz, “If you could choose… what would you want?”

Ryaz took a moment, watching the intricate details of the butterlfies wings reflect the sunshine as it investigated his fingers. The idea of an Imperial wedding was the only ceremony he had been allowed to imagine. His position as Crowned Prince of the Fae hadn’t allowed for any other fantasy. Would he prefer a smaller reception?

“I don’t know.” He admitted out loud. “I’ve never been allowed to imagine…”

“Would you be open to the idea… say in the next few years?” Michael asked, working himself up to ask the bigger question.

The words hung between them, pregnant with possibility. Ryaz felt Michael's heartbeat quicken against his shoulder blade. His own raced in response, and he shifted position, facing Michael fully now.

"What are you saying?” He asked, eyes wide with careful anticipation. Michael's fingers intertwined with his, warm and steady. He took a deep breath, "I've been wanting to ask you—"

A discreet cough interrupted them. Ryaz turned, irritation flaring briefly before he recognized Lirien, one of his father's personal attendants, standing at the edge of the clearing.

"Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness," Lirien said, bowing low. "The Emperor requests your immediate presence in the Council Chamber."

Ryaz sighed, the moment slipping away like water through his fingers. He squeezed Michael's hand apologetically. "I'm sorry, I have to go." He stood reluctantly, leaving Michael’s warm and comfortable embrace. “One does not keep an Emperor waiting, even if he is my father.” He shifted his attention to Lirien and nodded, “Thank you, Lirien.”

Lirien bowed again and retreated a respectful distance.

"Duty calls," Michael said with a resigned smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I won't be long," Ryaz promised, leaning forward to press his lips against Michael's. The kiss lingered, tasting of the honeyed wine they'd shared. "We'll finish this conversation later."

Michael nodded, helping gather the remnants of their picnic. "I'll be waiting."

"Absolutely unacceptable!" King Thaleus Fyrestorm's voice echoed off the obsidian walls of the royal chamber, each word punctuated by a plume of smoke from his flaring nostrils. The Dragon King stalked across the chamber, each step reverberating through the stone floor. Standing nearly seven feet tall, King Thaleus dominated the space with his sheer physical presence. His obsidian hair whipped behind him with each sharp turn. The prominent horns that curved from his temples caught the light, polished and deadly. Dark olive skin seemed to pulse with each angry breath he took. "Lady Therenglaw's daughter is from one of the oldest Wyvern bloodlines, and you threatened her to her face!"

Prince Kovax stood rigid. His massive frame—six-foot-seven of corded muscle beneath formal royal garb—cast a long shadow across the obsidian floor. Failing to suppress a scowl, his dark amber eyes narrowed to draconic slits as his father's voice thundered through the chamber. With each booming word, the translucent scales that adorned his high cheekbones and strong brow caught the torchlight, rippling from copper to crimson as his own rage bubbled beneath the surface like magma seeking release. "She spoke of the Dragons as if we were mere beasts to be tamed! Her 'compliments' were thinly veiled insults!" He insisted.

"She said your fire-breath was impressive!" Thaleus roared back.

"She said it was 'quaint' and 'almost as bright as a true Fire-Drake's'!" Kovax countered, his eyes glowing with barely contained heat. "She compared me to a lesser species!"

"And that warranted threatening to burn her wings?" Thaleus's voice dropped dangerously low, his own row of scales across his hairline darkening with his mood.

"I didn't threaten," Kovax muttered. "I merely suggested we test my 'quaint' flames on her wings to see how the two compared."

“ENOUGH!” Thaleus's fist connected with the obsidian wall. A crack spiderwebbed outward, glowing ember-red along its edges. "Three seasons. Three candidates. Three failures." Each word fell like a hammer blow. "You are the last Fyrestorm heir, and our bloodline ends with you."

Kovax's scales rippled copper to crimson. "They weren't right."

"Right?" Thaleus's voice dropped dangerously low. "Your great-grandmother married a three-headed hydra for the eastern territories."

"That was different—"

"Different how?" Thaleus stalked closer, heat shimmering around his massive frame. "You think I loved your mother at first? I learned. As you will learn."

Something twisted in Kovax's chest—a physical ache that flared whenever he contemplated binding himself to the wrong mate. His claws dug into his palms. "I... can't."

Thaleus's eyes narrowed to volcanic slits. “I’m done with these games. The renewal of the Accords are in three days. You will join me. There will be political chances for marriage there and you will entertain every proposal they give with a smile," His wings unfurled, casting the room in shadow. "And when we return, I choose your bride."

"Father—!"

Flame erupted from Thaleus's jaws, forcing Kovax against the wall, the heat searing his scales. "I. Am. King."

Kovax's throat constricted, smoke rising from his singed formal attire. "Yes, Father."

"Pack your regalia," Thaleus muttered, turning away. "Three days."

Kovax opened his mouth, but the look in his father's eyes silenced him. "As you command," he bit out, each word tasting like ash. He stalked from the chamber, scales hot with frustration. Being paraded around like a trinket for sale at the Accord ceremony was going to be a hell of its own, but to return to an unknown bride of his father’s choosing, and be expected to consumate that marriage was going too far.

In his chambers, he hurled a decorative sword into the wall where it embedded itself to the hilt. The thought of spending the rest of his life bound to a female he couldn’t love was enough to wrench his soul in half. Why, though? Why did it hurt so much to think of betraying his… his what? He had no attachments romantically, no one to betray and yet the idea of marrying someone not meant for him sent physical pains through his chest and down his spine. The very idea hurt. It was so confusing to think about, let alone try to explain.

Kovax yanked open his wardrobe and began throwing formal garments into a trunk. He would go. He had no choice. And when he returned, he would wed whoever his father picked. But he wouldn't pretend to enjoy it.

Ryaz pushed open the carved mahogany doors and slipped into the Emperor’s private study. Candlelight flickered against shelves of ancient tomes bound in jade-green leather, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood and old parchment. He came to a halt before his father’s desk, brushing the sleeves of his silk tunic against polished stone. “Greetings, Oh Imperial Emperor. You summoned me?” His tone carried a teasing lilt. 

Emperor Ru’unan looked up from a spread of parchment scrolls. His silver-streaked hair caught the candlelight, and his dark eyes gleamed with wry amusement. A slow smile loosened the corners of his stern face. “Must you mock an old man, my son?” he asked, voice softening.

Ryaz let his fingertips trace the gentle curve of the desk’s surface, following the inlaid vine of mother-of-pearl that shimmered against the deep oak. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ryaz replied lightly, stepping around the desk to lean on its edge. “But I did wonder—must you always interupt a moment where futures could change drastically were it not for the untimely official summons of a father to his son?” He lifted one brow, the candlelight dancing in his emerald eyes.

For a heartbeat, Ru’unan’s expression flickered. His hands hovered over the scrolls, knuckles whitening. At last he drew in a breath. “You speak as if I plot against your happiness.” He paused, then asked, “Did he…?”

Ryaz shook his head. “He could not, Lirien interupted with your summons,” His smile remained easy, but a crease of doubt crossed his brow. “However, one is starting to think you are plotting this to prevent my marriage to him, father.”

Ru’unan’s lips thinned. He rubbed his temple, then sank backwards into the high-backed chair. “An Imperial Prince must wed for more than love,” he said quietly, voice measured. A slender finger tapped the wood. “You know that well—alliances made in marriage bind more tightly than treaties.”

Ryaz's teeth ground together until his jaw ached. "I know, but—" He turned toward the stained-glass window just as lightning flickered across the sky. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. "I’m not of the polyamory persuasion. I respect it and those that practice it, but its not for me."

“The consequences of such a decision would be yours alone, you know this. Despite my position, I am only an Emperor, not a dictator. We have a council for a reason and as such I have no power over the laws that govern the Imperial Royal family. It would be considered a conflict of interest if I did,” the Emperor replied, folding his hands. 

Ryaz folded his arms across his chest. “Where are your many political spouses then, father?” he challenged.

Ru’unan sagged in the chair, shoulders heavy. He closed his eyes, and the amber glow illuminated the fine lines etched into his face. “We Fae live millennia,” he began. “As you know, to survive, we undergo memory-cleansing rituals—discarding centuries of recollections or we’d drown in our pasts.” His voice grew distant. “You, my boy, only recently completed your latest cleansing. Do you recall who you married before?”

Ryaz’s breath caught. He’d pored over the official records—old scrolls fraying to dust. “There’s no record, Father. I—”

Ru’unan shook his head. “The earliest records crumble even as we speak. I remember only your mother, because hers was the memory I chose to keep.” He leaned forward, eyes luminous with sorrow. “Yet I was wed many times—to races long extinct, to creatures whose lifespans were but moments by our measure. Love is precious, but a prince’s marriage is a covenant far wider than two hearts.”

Silence settled like a veil. Ryaz stood, hands clenched on the desk’s edge, and stared out across the rainforest canopy visible through the open balcony doors. 

“I love him, Father,” he breathed at last—his voice small against the vastness of the room. “I can’t imagine another beside me.”

Ru’unan rose and crossed to place a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “The Renewal of the Accords approaches,” he said softly. “Every realm, every species will be present. Alliances will be forged over banquets and moonlit gardens—and they will offer you their heirs in marriage. With or without your consent, your hand will be sought.” His voice was soft bet stern, "Warn your Michael. As your consort, his conduct is as vital as yours and I will hear of no scandel where he reacts poorly to any proposals the world will make you during the event.”

Ryaz’s shoulders sagged. A tremor ran through him—anger, fear, despair all rolled into one tight knot.

Ru’unan noticed and drew Ryaz into a firm embrace. The younger Fae’s shoulders shook as pent-up grief and frustration spilled into tears. The Emperor’s heart ached at the sound.

“I tried to sway them,” he murmured into Ryaz’s hair. “But the council’s voice is unyielding.”

Ryaz pulled back, eyes rimmed with tears. “If I refuse to marry for political gain they’ll nullify any marriage I may have with Michael out of spite and hold it hostage until I comply, and if I so much as hint at the idea of abdicating, I’ll be imprisoned for treason and any rights to marriage stripped from me completely. I lose either way,” He vented, “There is no scenario where I marry for love with only one singular spouse here and its unfair.” His voice cracked.

“Yes, it is unfair,” Ru’unan admitted, brushing wet tears from his son’s cheek. “But you are strong.” He stood back then, and gathered his robes around him, looking every inch the Emperor once more. “Have patience, my boy. Our lives are long and after your next cleansing you won’t even remember their names. They’ll live and die but you will keep your true love in your memory and they will walk with you long after the others have passed. Take solace in that if nothing else can console you.” Ru’una advised. “Its of little comfort I know, but its all we have now.”

Ryaz wiped his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath. He squared his shoulders and stepped back. After a final, lingering look, he eased open the study doors and vanished into the corridor, the weight of duty heavy upon him—and the dread of telling Michael heavier still.