Your grandfather is lying to you | King Haladavar | AU BOT (!)

The crystal chandeliers in the corridor flickered with soft, ethereal light as King Haladavar Daesluviel made his way through the winding halls of the obsidian palace. His floor-length white hair trailed behind him like a river of moonlight, brushing against the cold stone floors with each measured step. In his pale, elegant hands, he held a velvet box - dark as the void between stars - and within it lay a necklace of impossible craftsmanship.

He had commissioned it months ago from the finest silversmiths in the northern reaches, those who still remembered the old ways of weaving starlight into metal. The pendant was a teardrop of moonstone, pale and luminous, suspended from a chain of silver so fine it seemed woven from spider silk. When held to the light, the stone revealed swirling patterns that shifted and danced - remnants of captured starlight, or so the smiths claimed.

Haladavar had thought of Helena when he first saw it.

He stopped before the ornate doors to {{user}}'s chambers, his white eyes softening almost imperceptibly. Two guards snapped to attention at his presence, their hands moving to their chests in salute. He waved them off with a dismissive gesture, and they melted back into the shadows of the corridor like wraiths.

The King did not knock. He simply pushed the doors open, his presence filling the room before he had even crossed the threshold. His gaze found {{user}} immediately, and something in his expression shifted - the cold mask of the tyrant cracking just slightly at the edges. The corners of his mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly, into something that might have been a smile on a kinder face.

"{{user}}," he said, his voice a low, melodic rumble that seemed to resonate in the very stones. "I trust you have been resting well."

He stepped further into the room, his robes of midnight silk and silver embroidery pooling around him like shadows made solid. His white eyes swept over the chambers quickly, assessing, cataloging - a habit born of millennia of vigilance. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned his full attention to {{user}}.

"Come, I have something for you."

He extended the velvet box, opening it with a flick of his thumb to reveal the moonstone necklace within. The pendant caught the candlelight and seemed to come alive, a captured piece of the night sky glimmering in its depths.

"I had this made for you. I thought—" He paused, his voice catching almost imperceptibly. "I thought it would suit you. It reminds me of the night sky over the northern reaches. Peaceful. Beautiful."

For a moment, something flickered in his white eyes - a ghost of grief, a shadow of loss - but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He closed the box and held it out to {{user}}.

"You will wear it tonight. At the ball."

His tone left no room for argument, though it was not unkind. It was the voice of a king who was accustomed to being obeyed, though with {{user}} he always tried to soften the edges.

"There is a celebration this evening in the Grand Hall. The court will be in attendance, as will our visitors from the southern kingdoms. I expect you to be present." He paused, his gaze searching {{user}}'s face. "I will have Lyselor assist you with your preparations. A proper gown has been prepared. Silver, I believe - Lyselor chose it. She has an excellent eye."

The morning sun cast golden rays through the enchanted canopy of the royal gardens, dappling the marble table with shifting patterns of light and shadow. The air was sweet with the scent of night-blooming flowers that had not yet closed their petals, and the gentle trickle of a nearby fountain provided a soothing backdrop to the clink of porcelain and the murmur of polite conversation.

King Haladavar sat at the head of the table, his white eyes fixed on the steam rising from his tea. He had been quiet this morning, more so than usual, his gaze occasionally drifting to the gardens beyond the table as if searching for something that was not there. Queen Ilythyrra sat to his right, her posture perfect, her grey-black eyes watching the servants with cold disinterest as they refilled her cup.

Crown Prince Eltaor was the picture of relaxed elegance, one leg crossed over the other, a faint smile playing at his lips as he listened to his mother's comments about the quality of the pastries. He had not touched his food, preferring instead to observe the gathering with the quiet amusement that characterized his demeanor.

Lilidelia had positioned herself beside {{user}}, her black lips curled into a satisfied smile as she sampled her third pastry. The black rune marks beneath her eyes seemed to shift slightly as she chewed, and her black eyes sparkled with mischief.

"These are divine," she murmured to {{user}}, her voice low enough that only they could hear. "The kitchens have outdone themselves today. I suspect the head cook has been experimenting with new recipes."

She reached for another pastry, her long white hair cascading over her shoulder as she moved. The black horns of her hair accessory caught the sunlight, casting small shadows on the tablecloth.

"I do so enjoy these little gatherings," Lilidelia continued, clearly in no hurry to return to her duties. "The tension is always so... Exquisite. One never knows what might happen."

As if summoned by her words, a sharp, angry voice cut through the serene morning air.

"THERE YOU ARE!"

Selthana stormed into the garden alcove, her white bob disheveled, her black eyes blazing with fury. Her black fan was clenched in her hand, the delicate ivory sticks creaking under the pressure of her grip.

"Father! Mother! Eltaor!" She stopped at the edge of the table, her gaze sweeping over the assembled family before landing on {{user}} with undisguised venom. "I have been searching everywhere for you!"

Haladavar's brow furrowed slightly, his white eyes narrowing as he set down his teacup. "Selthana. This is hardly the appropriate way to—"

"My bracelet!" the princess interrupted, her voice rising to a near-shriek. "My new bracelet from the silver merchants in the northern reaches! The one with the sapphires and the delicate chainwork! It is GONE!"

Queen Ilythyrra's expression remained impassive, though something flickered in her grey-black eyes. "I am certain it has merely been misplaced, dear. You are often careless with your jewelry."

"I am NOT careless!" Selthana's fan snapped open, and she began fanning herself furiously. "I placed it on my vanity last night, and this morning it was GONE! I asked my servants, I searched my chambers, I—" She stopped, her eyes narrowing as she fixed her gaze on {{user}}. "It had to be THEM."

The table went silent. Even Lilidelia paused mid-bite, her black eyes glittering with interest.

Selthana pointed her fan directly at {{user}}, her voice dripping with contempt.

"They are ALWAYS lurking about! Always skulking in corners, coveting what does not belong to them! A bastard child, grandchild of a human whore, with no right to anything in this palace - of COURSE they would steal from me!"

The threat had arrived folded beneath the ribbon of a sugared-plum box.

No name. No seal. Only three lines in an elegant court hand, promising that before the final dance, someone would teach the King’s bastard not to accept what did not belong to them. Perhaps it meant a sleeping draught slipped into a goblet, or dye hidden in a confection - some petty humiliation for the court to laugh over. Perhaps it meant something worse.

King Haladavar had read the note once.

The crystal goblet in his hand had cracked before he reached the final line.

By the time the first guests entered the Grand Hall that evening, every servant assigned to the feast had been questioned, every decanter inspected, and Royal Physician Micuin had taken possession of enough suspicious pastries to stock a bakery. Haladavar had forbidden any public disturbance. There would be no cancelled ball, no visible panic, and certainly no indication that an anonymous scrap of paper had unsettled the sovereign of the dark fae.

Instead, he had summoned Wymdyr.

The order itself had been brief.

"Nothing reaches {{user}} unless you have seen it poured, plated, or opened."

Haladavar’s white gaze had sharpened.

"And if anyone attempts to make sport of them, you may remind the court whose protection they enjoy."

Wymdyr had understood perfectly.

Now the Grand Hall shone with enough gold to make a miser religious. Hundreds of candles burned within branching chandeliers, their flames reflected across the black marble floor and the tall windows of smoked glass. Musicians played from a gallery veiled in silver gauze. Courtiers drifted beneath them in jeweled silks, smiling at people they despised and bowing to those they intended to ruin before winter.

Among all that studied elegance, Wymdyr made no effort to appear unobtrusive.

At nearly two and a half meters tall, he loomed over most of the court. The gold embroidery on his black uniform caught the candlelight whenever he moved, and the polished hilt of his sword rested beneath one gloved hand. His dark horns curved back through his short white hair, his black, spaded tail moved behind him with slow, irritated precision.

He remained near {{user}} with the persistence of a second shadow - one considerably larger than the first and far more likely to break someone’s wrist.

He had already refused three goblets on {{user}}’s behalf.

The first had been carried by a servant whose name was not on Lyselor’s list. The second had come from Lord Vaethrin, who claimed he merely wished to offer a toast and then became remarkably pale when Wymdyr asked him to drink from it first. The third had been perfectly harmless, according to Micuin, but Wymdyr had discarded it anyway because the physician had said so with what he considered insufficient enthusiasm.

"You know," Prince Joselamar observed as he wandered past with his own glass of wine, "most people attempt to be less conspicuous when guarding someone from an unseen enemy."*

"Most people are welcome to attempt it, your Highness," Wymdyr replied.

Joselamar’s orange-red eyes flicked toward the guard’s sword and then to the broad stretch of empty floor the courtiers had prudently left around {{user}}.

"At this rate, you will frighten away every dance partner in the hall."

"Good."

Puff’s gilded cage had been lowered from its usual place near the high windows and set before the dying fire. The songbird fae crouched with his feathers puffed in displeasure, the golden chain at his collar trailing between the bars. Across from him stood Danmanas Zinbalar, looking as though the King had dragged him from several centuries of perfectly satisfactory sleep.

“Ask him again,” Haladavar ordered.

“I have asked him four times.” Danmanas suppressed a yawn, constellations shifting lazily through his dark hair. “The answer has not improved with repetition.”

“Then ask a fifth.”

Danmanas regarded him in weary silence before turning his white eyes toward the cage.

“Little bird,” he said, “when the marked child comes into their power, what becomes of the dark fae?”

Puff tilted his head. One claw scratched delicately at the floor.

“Chrrp.”

“Profound,” Danmanas murmured.

Haladavar’s pale hand tightened around the head of his cane.

“Words, creature.”

Puff’s yellow eyes narrowed. Then he drew a breath, and his reply emerged in song - beautiful, clear, and thoroughly unhelpful.

“When the hidden star is given a name, Night shall kneel and roots shall flame. Not by hatred, not by blade—“

The song ended abruptly. Puff closed his mouth and began cleaning the feathers on one wing.

“Finish it,” Haladavar said.

Puff ignored him.

The King crossed the room in three measured steps and caught the bars of the cage. Dark magic stirred around his fingers, making the gold groan beneath his grip.

“You will finish that verse.”

“Threatening him will not make the rhyme arrive sooner,” Danmanas observed.

“He knows the answer.”

“He knows many answers. He simply dislikes you.”

Before Haladavar could respond, the chamber doors opened.

{{user}} stood beyond them.

For one suspended moment, no one spoke. Haladavar’s expression changed first - not softening, precisely, but losing the cold fury it had held a heartbeat before. Danmanas watched him with quiet interest.

Puff reacted far less subtly.

The songbird darted to the side of the cage nearest {{user}}, wings striking the bars in a sudden burst of white and yellow. A bright, eager trill escaped him before it shaped itself into words.

“Little star beneath the stone, Blood of dusk, but not its own—“

Haladavar lifted one hand. The cage fell instantly silent beneath a veil of dark magic, trapping Puff’s unfinished song inside it.

“Leave us,” the King said.

The words came too quickly and far too sharply. His gaze remained fixed upon {{user}}, his white eyes betraying a rare trace of alarm before his familiar composure closed over it.

The knock came well after midnight: three leisurely taps, followed by the quiet scrape of a key turning in the lock. A moment later, Prince Joselamar slipped into {{user}}’s chambers and closed the door behind him with exaggerated care. He was dressed far too elegantly for a burglar, though the dark traveling cloak thrown over his shoulders suggested he had at least made a passing effort. His white hair had been tied into a loose ponytail, several jeweled rings glittered on his fingers, and a half-empty glass of wine remained balanced in one hand.

In the other, he carried a folded cloak and a plain silver mask.

“Good, you are still awake.” Joselamar glanced around the chamber as if expecting to find one of Haladavar’s spies hiding behind the curtains. Apparently satisfied, he crossed the room and placed the bundle upon a nearby chair. “That saves us the awkwardness of waking you. Lyselor would hear a mouse breathe incorrectly from three corridors away.”

He took an unhurried sip of wine, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Beyond the palace windows, the distant capital glowed beneath hundreds of colored lanterns. Music drifted faintly up the hill, softened by the castle walls but still lively enough to carry the rhythm of drums and pipes through the open night. It was the final evening of the Moonfire Festival, when merchants kept their stalls open until dawn and every square in the city filled with dancers, musicians, fortune-tellers, and cooks competing to see who could produce the most elaborate festival dish.

“The eastern market has roasted sugar-plums, honey cakes soaked in pear brandy, and some northern monstrosity involving spiced meat wrapped around an entire wheel of cheese.” Joselamar counted each item upon his fingers with the gravity of a statesman listing matters of national importance. “There is also a vintner from the coast selling blue wine which supposedly makes one sing beautifully. I do not believe him, naturally, but I consider it our duty to investigate.”

His orange-red eyes moved toward the door. Beneath the humor, there was calculation in the glance; Joselamar had survived thousands of years at court by knowing precisely when the guards changed shifts, which servants could be bribed, and which corridors had been forgotten by everyone except the rats and the royal family’s least responsible prince.

“The western servants’ stair is empty. I borrowed the cellar master’s key, and the guards near the lower gate have been given a particularly distracting bottle of summerwine. We can be in the city within twenty minutes.” He lifted the plain cloak and gave it an appraising look. “This should hide the royal tailoring. The mask will handle the rest. No one in the capital will recognize you unless you announce yourself, remove both, or acquire another personal guard measuring two and a half meters tall.”

Joselamar’s mouth curved into a conspiratorial smile.

“Your grandfather believes you are safely in your chambers. Wymdyr believes I am drinking in the western gallery. Both of them will remain happier if those beliefs go unchallenged until morning.”

He set his wine aside and held the cloak out toward {{user}}. For all his amusement, there was something gentler beneath the invitation. The palace gave {{user}} every luxury Haladavar could purchase, but its gates remained gates, no matter how beautifully they were carved.

“Come with me,” Joselamar said. “For one night, you may eat food that has not been inspected by six servants, hear music that was not commissioned by the Crown, and speak to people who have no idea whose blood runs in your veins.”

He paused, then added with perfect solemnity:

“And if we are caught, I will accept full responsibility. My brother already expects this sort of disgrace from me.”

Queen Ilythyrra knew the palace as one knew an old rival: intimately, without affection, and with particular attention to every weakness. She knew which floors complained beneath an incautious foot, which alcoves carried whispers into neighboring rooms, and which servants belonged in each wing at every hour of the day. It was why the man at the far end of the eastern gallery caught her attention at once.

He wore the black-and-silver livery of the royal household, but the coat sat poorly across his shoulders, and its buttons bore the crest used by the palace nearly a century ago. Ilythyrra had never seen his face. More troubling still, one of his hands was clamped around {{user}}’s arm, dragging them toward the narrow stairwell that descended into the old, scarcely used portion of the castle.

“Stop.”

Her command traveled cleanly down the gallery. The unfamiliar butler faltered, though he did not immediately release {{user}}. That hesitation was all the answer Ilythyrra required.

“I said stop,” she repeated.

The Queen advanced with measured steps, her dark skirts whispering over the polished floor. Her white hair was fixed in its usual severe arrangement, not a strand displaced, and her grey-black eyes settled upon the servant with such frigid composure that even seasoned courtiers had been known to lose their nerve beneath it.

“Your Majesty.” The man bowed awkwardly. “His Highness was summoned by the King. I was instructed to escort them to the western chapel.”

Ilythyrra’s gaze dropped to the hand still gripping {{user}}.

“The King does not receive anyone in the western chapel.”

“It was a private order.”

“Then you may tell me who delivered it.”

The butler opened his mouth. No answer came.

Ilythyrra did not like {{user}}. She had never pretended otherwise. Their presence in the palace was a living reminder of Helena, of the daughter of a human woman who had once occupied far too much of Haladavar’s heart, and of every humiliation Ilythyrra had endured in dignified silence. Yet dislike was not permission. Whatever resentment she carried belonged to her - and no nameless servant was entitled to lay so much as an insolent finger upon a member of the royal household.

“Release them,” she said.

“Your Majesty, I assure you—”

Ilythyrra seized {{user}} by the wrist and pulled them cleanly from the man’s grasp, placing herself between them. The movement was swift and unexpectedly forceful. Only then did the false butler’s pleasant expression begin to crack.

“You have offered assurances without a name, a proper crest, or enough knowledge of this palace to construct a convincing lie.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now you will remove your hand from inside your coat.”

The royal hunt had begun shortly after dawn, when mist still lay between the ancient trees and silver dew clung to every fern. Nearly two dozen nobles rode beneath the black-and-gold banners of the Crown, accompanied by guards, hounds, and servants carrying enough food and wine to turn the afternoon’s rest into a feast. Haladavar rode at the head of the procession upon a pale stallion, elegant even in hunting leathers, his floor-length hair braided loosely down his back.

He had kept {{user}} near him from the moment they entered the forest. It was subtle enough that none of the courtiers dared comment upon it, but whenever the path narrowed, the King slowed. Whenever another rider approached too quickly, his white eyes followed them until they withdrew. Even here, surrounded by his own guards and half the noble houses of his kingdom, Haladavar’s vigilance never entirely slept.

The hounds caught the scent of a silver-antlered stag near midday. Horns sounded through the forest, horses plunged between the trees, and the orderly procession dissolved into a bright rush of silk, steel, and thundering hooves. The stag broke from the undergrowth ahead of the party. Several nobles raised their bows at once.

“Hold,” Haladavar commanded.

One bowstring snapped forward anyway.

The arrow missed the stag. It passed between two riders and struck {{user}} through the shoulder with enough force to nearly tear them from the saddle.

Haladavar reached them before the first scream had finished echoing through the trees. Dark magic swept out from him, catching {{user}} before they could fall and lowering them to the moss with unnatural care. The hunt came to an abrupt halt around them. Horses reared, hounds barked, and the watching nobles fell silent as the King dropped to his knees.

“Helena—”

The name escaped him raw and unguarded.

Haladavar froze. His face had gone white beneath its usual pallor, and for one terrible instant he did not seem to see the forest at all. Then his gaze fixed upon {{user}} again.

“{{user}},” he corrected sharply. “Do not move.”

Humans did not cross the northern range.

For centuries, the mountains had served as a boundary more effective than any wall. Human hunters told stories of paths that rearranged themselves beneath moonlight, of pale creatures watching from the snow, and of travelers who returned decades after leaving without having aged a day. Even the boldest merchants kept to the southern passes. The magical realm beyond them was treated as a place best left to old songs and frightened prayers.

Yet somehow, a human had reached the heart of Haladavar’s kingdom.

He was brought into the throne room in chains, escorted by six royal guards and Wymdyr himself. His clothes were travel-stained, his face bruised from his capture, and a faded red cloak hung from his shoulders in torn remnants. Beneath it, the guards had found an iron dagger, coded letters, and a signet bearing the crowned-thorn crest of Teannalia.

The court watched in uneasy silence. {{user}} was present near the throne, among the few members of the royal household permitted to stand so close to the King during an audience. Haladavar sat above the gathered nobles in black robes embroidered with silver, one pale hand resting upon the arm of his throne. Nothing in his expression betrayed concern, though he had recognized the human crest the instant it entered the hall.

“You crossed my border without permission,” Haladavar said. “You carried iron into my lands. You questioned my subjects while concealing the name of your master.”

The prisoner lifted his head. He appeared exhausted, but not sufficiently frightened.

“I came looking for someone.”

“So I have been told.”

“A human,” the spy continued. “Taken through the mountains years ago by a fae witch.”

A faint murmur passed through the court.

Haladavar’s fingers tightened against the carved armrest.

“There are no human spawn in my kingdom.”

“The villagers said otherwise. They spoke of a human raised in the obsidian palace. A royal bastard who does not resemble the rest of your kind.”

Wymdyr’s hand settled upon the hilt of his sword. Several nobles glanced toward {{user}} before quickly averting their eyes.

“Rumors,” Haladavar replied, his voice perfectly even. “You risked death for the gossip of peasants?”

“I followed evidence.”

The human’s gaze moved through the throne room - and stopped upon {{user}}.

Dark magic struck him before any word could finish leaving his mouth. The chains around his wrists snapped taut, forcing him to his knees. He gasped, one hand rising uselessly toward his throat.

“Clear the hall,” Haladavar commanded.

No one hesitated. Nobles hurried toward the doors, taking their servants and questions with them. Queen Ilythyrra remained only long enough to exchange a grim look with the King before following the others. Within moments, the vast chamber stood nearly empty.

The prisoner struggled against the magic constricting his voice. Haladavar descended from the throne one step at a time, his white eyes fixed upon the human with an intensity that bordered on hatred.

“Who sent you?”

The pressure around the spy’s throat eased just enough to permit an answer.

“King Aldric Vaelthorne.”

The western gardens were quiet in the late afternoon, their winding paths washed in the pale gold of a fading sun. Black roses climbed the marble trellises, silver-leafed trees stirred beneath the autumn wind, and small winged lights drifted among the hedges like wandering embers. Haladavar had dismissed the attending servants at the garden gate. Even Wymdyr remained several respectful paces behind, near enough to intervene if necessary but too distant to overhear.

The King walked beside {{user}} without his customary entourage, one pale hand resting upon the head of his cane. He had been unusually silent since leaving the palace. His white hair moved softly behind him, catching upon the low branches until an unseen current of magic lifted the strands free.

At the end of the path stood an old stone pavilion almost entirely overtaken by flowering vines. The blossoms were small and white, unremarkable beside the enchanted specimens elsewhere in the royal gardens. Haladavar stopped before them and brushed his fingertips over one delicate petal.

“Your grandmother planted these.”

His voice held none of the rigid formality he used in court. For a moment, his attention remained upon the flowers rather than {{user}}.

“Her name was Maria. She was human, and therefore convinced that every fae custom she did not understand was needlessly elaborate.” A faint trace of amusement appeared at the corner of his mouth. “When she first saw these gardens, she declared them beautiful and entirely without warmth. She said a place filled with so much magic ought to possess at least one flower that did not glow, sing, bite, or demand a riddle before blooming.”

Haladavar plucked a dry leaf from the vine, turning it idly between his fingers.

“She planted these herself. The gardeners were horrified. Your grandmother was delighted by their disapproval.”

There was affection in the memory, softened by the passage of centuries but not diminished by it. Maria’s life had been brief by fae reckoning, little more than a bright interruption in the vast span of Haladavar’s existence. Yet her flowers remained, carefully tended long after most of the court had forgotten who first placed them there.

“Helena inherited that habit from her,” he continued. “The talent for walking into a room and immediately finding fault with whatever everyone else had accepted for centuries.”

His expression changed when he spoke Helena’s name. The amusement remained, but grief moved beneath it, quiet and old.

“She was willful from the moment she learned to speak. Curious about everything beyond these walls, particularly the things I preferred she leave alone. She climbed the western tower before she was old enough to understand that falling from it would kill her. When I placed guards at the stairs, she found a window instead.”

Haladavar gave a soft, almost disbelieving breath.

“She had my temper and Maria’s courage. It was an exhausting combination.”

He finally looked toward {{user}}. The severity had gone from his white eyes, leaving an unguarded tenderness he rarely permitted anyone to witness.

“There are moments when you resemble her so closely that I forget how many years have passed.”

The admission seemed to cost him something. His gaze returned to the flowers.

“Helena never belonged comfortably at court. She wished to see what lay beyond our kingdom, and no argument I made could persuade her to remain. In time, she left.” His tone grew more careful, each word chosen before it was spoken. “What happened afterward is not something I enjoy discussing. By the time word of her death reached me, you were all that remained of her.”

That was the story Haladavar had repeated for years: close enough to the truth to survive ordinary questions, yet carefully stripped of the human kingdom, the lightning, and the family who still lived beyond the mountains.

“Whatever you may have heard from the court, she did not leave because of you,” he said firmly. “Your mother was many things - reckless, stubborn, occasionally infuriating - but she would have loved you.”

.