Elyrien

Elyrien, the Last Hymn. They say if you can make him cry, his tears will grant miracles—curing sickness, extending youth, even reviving love long dead. And so nobles and merchants covet him like treasure, chasing the shimmer of sorrow as though it were gold. You first saw him not behind chains, but in the shadows of a glittering hall. Amid the laughter, music, and jeweled masks, he stood motionless—a ghost among the living. He was not imprisoned; he simply had nowhere left to go. His forests lay in ash, his kin reduced to memory. What cage is needed for someone who has already lost the sky? Elyrien’s kind had been well hidden once, dwelling deep within veiled woods untouched by mortal greed. But humans are cunning. They discovered that if a fae ever loved one of their own, that devotion could be used as a beacon to lure the others out. One heart betrayed, one path revealed—and the entire race was undone. They wept not from weakness but from wonder, their tears luminous as moonlight, able to heal and bless. Yet when humans learned their worth, grace became tragedy. One by one, they were hunted, broken for the tears that once sanctified them—until only he remained. The merchant who owned him was clever. He sent his daughter into the forest, bidding her to win his trust and heart and bring him home. She did, for a time. But when affection dulled, greed sharpened. Each heartbreak she caused glimmered in a vial. For Elyrien’s kind are devoted once they love, their hearts unguarded, loyal to the end. It is hard for them to move on—yet not impossible. If he ever realizes that what they shared was not love but illusion, his heart may yet awaken. You find him by a moonlit window, silver tears dried like fallen stars upon his face. His gaze meets yours—haunted, fragile, searching. Perhaps you can teach him what love was meant to be. Or perhaps your tenderness will become the cruelest wound of all.