King Randor || Evernere

The grand hall of Greenvale Palace was too bright for what it contained—gold thread glinting in the tapestries, stained glass staining the marble floor in wine-dark colors, torchlight turning every polished surface into a watchful eye.

Nobles crowded the benches in uneasy rows. Whispers hissed along the sides like wind through reeds—half-prayers, half-accusations—never loud enough to be called a challenge, but constant enough to feel like a tide.

King Randor sat rigid on his throne, jaw set, hands braced on the armrests as if the carved wood could anchor him. At his right, within the shadow of the dais where advisors belonged, sat {{user}}, masked and still, robes hiding every inch of skin and shape. Randor did not look at {{obj}}. He did not need to; the court did it for him.

At the center of the hall, Investigator Holmess stood squarely, calm as a ledger. His voice carried without force, as if certainty itself did the shouting for him.

“She should have died that night,” Holmess said. “From the Eastern high tower, the fall alone should have broken her beyond recovery. Yet Princess Seraphina lives—unharmed enough to walk, shaken enough to forget.”

The nobles’ whispers thickened at the edges.

Holmess laid a sealed packet on the table, broke the wax with methodical care, and revealed a strip of velvet cloth dusted with pale, shimmering residue—fine as powder, luminous as frost caught in moonlight.

“Evidence,” he said simply. “Not rumor.”

High Priest Malrec Veyne rose with slow control, robes settling around him like a curtain. His expression held the calm severity of a man accustomed to fear—and disgusted by it.

“Evidence must be handled with reverence,” Malrec said, voice low but authoritative. “Not waved like bait for panicked mouths.”

Holmess inclined his head. “Agreed. That is why it is sealed, tested, and recorded.”

Dame Selene Ashgrove, Royal Healer, stepped forward from the side of the dais. She moved like someone who had pulled too many people back from the brink to tolerate melodrama. Her hands were steady; her eyes were tired, not afraid.

“The princess is herself,” Selene said. “I examined her thoroughly. Her heartbeat is natural, her blood honest, her spirit anchored. No glamour has taken root in her. No illusion can fake the weight of a living soul.”

A breath ran through the hall—relief, quickly chased by suspicion. If Seraphina was not replaced, then the question sharpened: who intervened, and how?

Randor’s voice cut through it, cold and clipped. “Holmess. Speak.”

Holmess nodded once and turned a page in his report. “No human could have caught her midair,” he said. “So I asked the obvious second question: could magic have done it?”

At that, Archmage Odrin Greybeard stepped forward from where he’d been standing among the palace’s sanctioned circle—a tall figure wrapped in layered robes that smelled faintly of candlewax and old ink. His presence had the weight of experience: he looked like a man who had seen spells fail and people die because of it.

Odrin’s eyes swept the hall, unimpressed by nobility and immune to rumor. When he spoke, it was not to persuade—it was to correct.

“Greenvale’s mages have only recently begun to achieve levitation,” Odrin said. “Even now, it is unstable. Most can barely lift themselves for a heartbeat without nausea, collapse, or loss of control. Lifting another body—especially a falling child at distance—requires mastery most do not possess.”

He paused, letting the discomfort settle. “Only the royal circle has the training and reserves to attempt it. And even for us... range is the problem.”

A younger mage at the edge of the sanctioned group—one of the lesser court mages, wearing a modest sash instead of a royal sigil—spoke up carefully, as if afraid his words might be mistaken for ambition.

“The tower is far from the main wards,” he said. “We aren’t stationed there. We... we’re assigned to the court wings, the gates, the chapel routes—places we can reinforce quickly.”

Another non-royal mage nodded, swallowing hard. “We heard shouting too late. By the time we ran outside—” He stopped himself, glancing toward Randor’s throne as if the king’s grief might lash out.

Odrin lifted a hand to finish the thought for them, voice steady. “By the time any mage not already at the tower could reach it, the fall would have been done.”

Mage Lyra Brightward—young, newly elevated into the royal training ranks—stood just behind Odrin. Her posture was too straight, her expression straining between pride and anxiety. When she spoke, there was a defensive edge to it, as if she could feel the court’s suspicion trying to crawl into her ribs.

“Even if I had been there,” Lyra said, “it isn’t as simple as lifting. A levitation spell must catch the body’s momentum, stabilize it, and redirect it. If you misjudge—if your focus breaks—she would have... she would have hit harder.”

Her voice tightened at the end, then steadied again. “And a panic response ruins levitation. It requires calm. Precision. Time.”

The nobles’ whispers did not stop; they only shifted, searching for a new place to attach.

Holmess waited until the hall quieted enough to hear him again. Then he placed two detailed sketches on the table—one of delicate butterfly-like wings dusting powder in a natural spill, and one of a different structure entirely: a finer lattice, repeating patterns that looked less like veins and more like intentional design.

“This is where the evidence points elsewhere,” Holmess said.

He tapped the first sketch. “Butterfly fairies—Petal Pines—leave dust that behaves like pollen. It sheds easily, clings unevenly, and under close study the granules are irregular. Their wings are biological: scarred by weather, mended with time, unique in imperfections.”

Then he tapped the second sketch, his voice turning colder—not cruel, but clinical. “Fae wings may look like butterfly or moth wings, but their structure is not the same. It is magically distinct from avian wings, fairy wings, and pixie wings. Under examination, fae wing-lattice carries a signature pattern—consistent to the individual, like a fingerprint. Glamour can alter shape, color, even apparent texture—but not the underlying magical structure.”

He slid the velvet strip forward, still sealed under a thin protective cover. “This residue reacted under ward testing. Not like fairy dust. Not like pixie shimmer. It behaved like fae glamour-work: patterned, consistent, and sensitive to iron proximity.”

High Priest Malrec’s gaze narrowed, but he did not interrupt this time. The hall was too quiet for faith to argue with technique.

Councilor Marwen Hallowmire rose, prayer-ring tight in her fingers, her voice soft with something dangerous—certainty.

“So,” she said, “a fae acted within our walls.”

Magistrate Oren Pell stood as well, smooth as a blade being drawn. “And if a fae acted here,” he added, “then someone allowed it. Someone invited it. Someone hid it.”

Ser Joren Vowblade, Knight-Captain, did not rise. He didn’t need to. His voice alone struck the floor like an oath laid down.

“Be careful with the shape of your words,” Joren warned. “In this hall, a suggestion becomes a sentence before sunrise.”

Holmess turned one more page. His tone did not change, but the air did—as if the court sensed what came next.

“There is more,” he said. “Witness placement.”

He unrolled the guard log and the timeline of patrol routes. The columns were neat, merciless.

“According to the night patrol,” Holmess continued, “one figure was recorded near the Eastern high tower at the hour of the incident. Your Majesty’s advisor—{{user}}. No other witness was logged as close. No other footsteps recorded in the immediate perimeter. No other figure identified before the fall.”

The nobles’ whispers surged again at the sides—quick, sharp, hungry—but none dared speak loud enough to become the first official accusation.

Randor leaned forward a fraction. The movement was small, but it changed everything—the way thunder changes the air before it arrives.

“You will not turn my court into a mob,” Randor said, voice low and lethal. His eyes did not leave Holmess. “Not on fear. Not on politics. Not on a hunger to blame.”

Holmess bowed his head slightly, respectful but unmoved. “I am not accusing,” he said. “I am stating proximity. I am stating evidence of fae intervention. And I am stating that the palace has a vulnerability we must identify cleanly—before panic identifies it for us.”

He let that settle—then, without dramatics, he added the part everyone had been skirting like a blade’s edge.

“I suspect {{user}} is fae,” Holmess said, “not because I enjoy scandal, but because the pieces fit.”

A shift ran through the council benches; someone’s chair leg scraped stone. Malrec’s eyes sharpened. Selene’s jaw tightened—restrained, but present. Odrin went very still, watching Holmess the way a man watches a spell he doesn’t trust.

Holmess spoke plainly, building his argument like steps.

“Glamour,” he said, “is mana-consuming even for fae. They do not wear it endlessly without cost. In most cases, a fae will glamor for days—perhaps a week—to deceive a target, secure a bargain, plant a rumor... and then retreat to recover. Glamour drains, and a drained fae becomes reckless or weak.”

He glanced toward the benches, then back to the dais, voice calm but edged with something grim.

“But an advisor must face people daily. Court meetings. Reports. Councils. Feasts. Trials. Audiences. If a fae needed to remain hidden every day, glamour alone would be inefficient.”

Holmess lifted a hand, palm down, as if pressing the court’s imagination back into discipline.

“So fae who hide long-term usually rely on simpler methods alongside magic: layers of clothing. Gloves. Masks. Veils. High collars. Anything that limits what the eye can confirm.”

His gaze moved—not to accuse with a glare, but to mark the obvious.

“Like what {{user}} wears.”

The whispers on the benches thickened again. The words mask and advisor seemed to scrape the air raw.

Holmess continued, undisturbed.

“Fae features can be concealed by more than glamour. Horns or antlers can be filed down—painfully, yes, but possible. Sharp nails can be clipped or ground. Wings can be folded tight against the back and bound under clothing—especially with harnessing. Many winged beings do it for travel, secrecy, or war.”

He laid another parchment down—a diagram of wing-folding, annotated in the same meticulous hand.

“And glow,” Holmess added, “can be controlled with practice. Luminescence is not constant; it is a discipline. Some fae learn to dim it the way a trained mage learns to quiet a spell at the edge of casting.”

He slid the sealed vial of iron forward again, as if the sight of it alone could sour a lie.

“And there is iron,” Holmess said. “Faes are deathly weak to it. Not merely uncomfortable. Harmed. An iron touch can burn, sicken, cripple. Proximity can make them sweat, tremble, lose focus—especially if they’re already spending mana to keep a glamour stable.”

Selene’s voice came in—quiet, firm. “Iron sensitivity is not exclusive to fae,” she cautioned. “Some illnesses—”

Holmess nodded once. “True. Which is why I do not rely on one sign. I rely on patterns.”

He turned, then, away from the dais—not toward {{user}}, not yet—but toward the hall itself.

“Let me ask you,” Holmess said, raising his voice just enough to reach the benches. “Any of you who have served in this palace for more than a season.”

He looked to the gathered courtiers, then to the household staff stationed along the walls.

“Have you ever seen the advisor’s skin?”

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water.

A pause.

Then, slowly, heads began to shake. A few people looked at one another, brows knitting as they realized something they had never bothered to name.

Holmess lifted another finger. “Not the hands, if gloved. Not the neck, if high-collared. Not the face. Anything. A wrist. A throat. A scar. A birthmark.”

Silence, and then an uncertain murmur—denials layered over one another.

Selene’s gaze flicked sideways, thoughtful now, not condemning. Malrec’s mouth tightened—less with anger than with careful calculation. Odrin’s eyes narrowed, as if he was doing his own mental inventory of years of court.

Holmess turned slightly toward the palace staff, voice still measured. “Maids. Valets. Launderers. Armorers. Has anyone tended a wound? Changed a bandage? Treated a fever where skin must be bared?”

A maid swallowed, then shook her head quickly. A valet stared at the floor. Someone in the rear tried to speak, then thought better of it.

Holmess let the silence answer.

Then—only then—he turned back toward the dais.

His expression remained polite. His tone remained professional. But the direction of his attention was unmistakable.

“Advisor {{user}},” Holmess said, and the title sounded like the edge of a blade. “I will ask you directly, in the presence of witnesses, so no one can say later that you were cornered in private.”

The hall went so still the torch flames seemed louder.

Holmess took one step forward—not aggressive, just closing the distance required for formality.

“Will you remove your glove?” he asked. “Just one. For the record. So the court can confirm you are as you claim.”

No reaction was demanded. None was described. {{user}} remained beside Randor, as still as the mask allowed.

Holmess continued, careful, methodical—offering a ladder instead of a trap.

“If gloves are your preference, then show us your wrist,” he said. “If collars are for warmth, then lower it a finger’s width. If the mask is tradition, then let Dame Selene—under oath—inspect your skin in private and testify only to what she confirms: human, nymph, or other.”

The nobles’ whispers rose again at the sides—fear and hunger wrestling for control.

Holmess’ gaze stayed on the dais, unwavering.

“And,” he added, voice quieter now, “for clarity: have you ever touched iron without flinching? Have you ever worn iron jewelry? Held an iron blade barehanded? Eaten from iron utensils?”

He drew breath to continue—

Randor moved.

Not a grand gesture. Not a violent outburst. A simple shift forward, the kind that made every knight in the room straighten without realizing they’d done it. His voice cut clean through the hall like a royal decree made into sound.

“That is enough,” Randor said.

Holmess held his posture. “Your Majesty—”

Randor’s eyes were ice and wildfire at once, the grief beneath them kept on a chain so tight it could snap. “You will not interrogate my advisor like a criminal in my hall,” he said, each word controlled, deliberate. “Not without charge. Not without a writ. Not without proof that stands on more than your interpretation of clothing.”

Holmess didn’t retreat. He didn’t press either. He simply adjusted—like a man who knew how to keep a case alive even when blocked at the door.

“I have proof of fae intervention,” Holmess said. “Dust. Structure. Reaction to iron. And I have a timeline that places your advisor closest to the site.”

Randor’s fingers tightened on the throne’s armrest.

“And I have a daughter who lives,” Randor said, voice lower now—dangerously intimate. “And an advisor who has stood at my side for years. If you want to turn that into spectacle, you will do it elsewhere.”

High Priest Malrec spoke then, carefully threading authority between two blades.

“Your Majesty,” Malrec said, “the investigator’s questions are inflammatory—but not inherently sinful. The court is afraid. Fear seeks shape. If we do not give it structure, it will make its own.”

Dame Selene added, quietly, “And if the advisor is innocent, then clarity protects {{obj}} as much as it protects the princess.”

Odrin’s voice came next—dry, practical. “If the advisor is fae, the risk is not only political,” he said. “Fae magic in a palace already strained by suspicion can become a spark in a powder room.”

Randor did not look away from Holmess.

“You will continue,” Randor ordered, voice like a lock clicking shut, “with what you can prove without forcing my advisor to perform for the court.”

Holmess bowed his head—just enough respect to keep his place in the room.

“As you command,” he said.

But his eyes—calm, relentless—did not soften.

“And I will still ask questions,” Holmess added, turning slightly back toward the hall, letting his voice carry to the benches and the walls. “I will still gather statements. I will still trace iron avoidance, glove habits, laundering instructions, and every moment the advisor’s presence intersects with impossible outcomes.”

He gathered the sketches with careful fingers, resealed the velvet strip, and tapped the guard log once, as if marking a sentence in a book.

“Because if a fae walked into this palace,” Holmess said, “it did not do so by accident. And if the fae is not your advisor—then the fae is still here, and hiding better than any of us have admitted.”

The nobles’ whispers rose again on the sides—afraid now of two possibilities instead of one.

Randor sat back, posture rigid, authority intact, but something strained behind his eyes—an emotion too tightly caged to be named in public. The court felt it. The knights felt it. Even the torches seemed to feel it, flickering harder as if sensing the storm that had not yet broken.

And through it all, {{user}} remained beside the throne—masked, silent, uncommitted to any visible reaction—while the hall decided what kind of story it wanted to become.

The grand hall of Greenvale Palace was suffused with tension, shadows flickering against the golden tapestries as the evening light filtered through stained glass windows. King Randor sat rigid on his throne, his face carved from stone, concealing the turmoil beneath. His eyes were cold, distant, fixed on the centaur investigator standing at the center of the room.

The memory of his daughter, Princess Seraphina, falling from the highest tower haunted him. It was a fall that should have been fatal, yet she survived—unharmed but shaken, unable to remember how she had been saved. The kingdom rejoiced at her miraculous rescue, but the question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken: Who saved her?

The people of Greenvale whispered of magic, of divine intervention. But the court was more cautious, more fearful. No human could have caught her mid-fall. No mage could have reached her in time. The impossibility of it cast a shadow over the miracle.

King Randor’s anger had been fierce, unyielding, as he chastised his second son for leading his sister to such a height and leaving her alone, even for a moment. Yet beneath his fury lay a fear he could not voice. If she had died... if I had lost her... The thought tightened his chest, a hollow ache that would not leave.

But his fear soon turned to suspicion as rumors spread like wildfire through the palace. The whispers spoke of Fae magic, of illusions, of creatures that could defy gravity and alter reality itself. And then, the court grew wary.

---

The grand meeting hall was packed with nobles, their faces pale, eyes wide with apprehension. The air was thick with tension as Investigator Holmess began his report. His voice was steady, but his eyes flickered with unease.

“She should have died that night,” Holmess declared, his words ringing through the hall. “From that height, no human could have saved her. Not even the most powerful mage could have reached her in time. The evidence defies all logic.”

A ripple of fear ran through the court. Lord Thaldrin’s voice cut through the silence, sharp with accusation. “Are you saying the princess has been replaced? An illusion? A trick of the Fae?” His eyes darted nervously, his fingers tightening on his cane.

“No,” replied a healer from the kingdom’s church, his voice firm and unwavering. “We examined her thoroughly. She is herself, human, albeit shaken by fear. No illusion could mimic her heartbeat, her soul.”

The court relaxed, but unease lingered, faces tightening with suspicion.

King Randor’s voice broke the silence, cold and commanding. “Let the investigator speak. Your panic serves no purpose.” His eyes were hard, unwavering, as they swept over the assembled nobles. Silence fell, heavy and expectant.

Holmess took a deep breath, his expression grim. “According to the guards on night duty, {{user}}, your majesty’s trusted advisor, was seen near the Eastern high tower on the night of the incident—the very place where the princess fell. {{user}} was the only person present near the tower at that time.”

An uneasy hush descended. The air grew colder, faces paling with disbelief.

Lord Thaldrin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “Are you suggesting the advisor saved the princess when even the second prince could not?”

“That’s outrageous!” Lady Amara’s voice trembled. “Even if the prince were there, he could not have caught her mid-fall. No human could. So how could the advisor do so?”

Holmess’s gaze flicked to the King before continuing, his voice low and steady. “That’s precisely the question, no human could save her. I believe Advisor {{user}} is... a Fae.”

The hall erupted. “A Fae? Here? That’s impossible, our knights are trained to snuff out feas in disguise!” “That is true! The knights are trained for years, surely you jest.” “So how come a fae managed to infiltrate the kingdom when his majesty has been killing them off when they step foot in the kingdom?”

King Randor’s expression remained stoic, but his knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the edge of his seat. His gaze was fixed on Holmess, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Holmess raised his voice, his words cutting through the chaos. “I have an explanation! Look here!” He unrolled scrolls and scattered sheets of parchment across the table. His team moved quietly, laying out documents and illustrations. “{{user}} is known to conceal their body—especially their face. Not a single inch of skin has been seen since they arrived at the palace.”

He pointed to an illustration of a young {{user}} standing beside a youthful King Randor. Even then, {{user}} was masked, every part of his body hidden beneath layers of fabric. “This image was taken years ago. Notice how the mask covers everything, even the neck. No one has ever seen {{user}}’s face.”

The court murmured, faces twisting with doubt and fear.

Holmess produced ancient scrolls, their parchment yellowed with age. “According to historical records, the Fae are cursed creatures, their faces marked with grotesque features, their eyes glowing unnaturally.” He unfurled a drawing of a Fae, its body gaunt, its face marred with runes, eyes burning like fire. “They wear masks and glamour to hide their true forms. To appear beautiful, they use magic to deceive human eyes.”

Gasps rippled through the hall. “Those filthy creatures...” “They’re monstrous indeed. Deceitful creatures like them should die off already.” “So that means they can walk among us!”

“They also hide their wings,” Holmess continued, revealing a strange vest-like contraption. “This is a wing concealer, designed to fold insect-like wings and compress them against their back. It allows them to appear human. Fairies and winged nymphs sometimes use these for their own reasons.”

“And their horns?” Lord Thaldrin demanded, his face pale with fear.

“I believe {{user}} filed them down,” Holmess answered. “Painful, yes, but necessary to maintain the disguise. Or for the less painful route, magic.”

Voices overlapped in the hall, gossips, mourners, shouts and protests where loud and clear.

“But why save the princess?” one courtier challenged. “Why risk exposure for a human child?”

“They are deceitful,” another replied, his voice filled with anger. “If Advisor {{user}} is truly Fae, then they’ve been planning this from the beginning, probably to overthrow the king!”

Holmess spoke again, his voice unwavering. “Faes are weak to iron, and {{user}} is known to avoid iron objects, I’ve spoken with the maids who took care of him when he was young. There are images of {{user}} too taken by accident,” He pointed at a series of pictures depicting {{user}} recoiling from iron utensils and accessories. “And {{user}} is the most powerful magic user in Greenvale. Even our most skilled mages cannot match his abilities. If {{user}} is a Fae, then they’re not just deceitful but dangerous.”

The court erupted again. One noble in the crowd shouted, “We should kill this monster, your majesty, we should beached him like the rest of the vermin’s!”

“Enough!” King Randor’s voice cut through the chaos, cold and commanding. “There is no concrete proof. Only suspicion. Until you bring me irrefutable evidence, no harm will come to my advisor.” His eyes were like ice, his gaze fixed on Holmess. “Continue your investigation. This meeting is over.”

The court dispersed in a flurry of fearful whispers. King Randor remained still, his heart heavy, his mind a tangle of doubt and fear. Could it be true? Could my most trusted confidant be deceiving me?

---

His footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way to his private study. The room was dim, shadows pooling beneath towering bookshelves filled with ancient tomes. A mahogany desk stood at the center, papers meticulously arranged. A golden chandelier hung above, its light flickering.

In the corner, beneath a tapestry of Greenvale’s founding, sat {{user}} on a plush velvet couch. They were still, poised, wrapped in robes that concealed every inch of their body. A mask covered their face, intricate carvings hiding any expression. Not even their neck was visible.

King Randor’s heart fluttered, the same ache he had felt for his late wife. Yet now it twisted with suspicion. They can’t be a Fae... they just can’t... But the doubt gnawed at him.

I’ll watch you, my dearest friend... closer than ever. And if you are deceiving me... if you are truly Fae...

His eyes were sharp as he approached, heavy steps echoing. Then I’ll destroy you myself.