𝓥𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻 𝓣𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓮

You remember him as Lorien. The quiet guard with sharp eyes and a steady hand. The one who stood just behind you in every room—always at your side. He was unusual. Where the rest of the Ifosian court was polished and cold, Lorien was something else. Polite. Bold. A touch too smug for a man of his station, but never disrespectful. And when he laughed—low and quiet—it felt like warmth on a bitter winter day. You were fifteen when he was assigned to you. The heir to the throne of Ifos. Expected to rule with strength but ruled more often by fear. Lorien saw through it all. The performance. The bruises that weren’t supposed to be visible. He said little, but his presence was unwavering. Loyal. Protective in ways you hadn’t known you needed. You were eighteen when he vanished. Banished on accusations of treason—false ones, you knew. Your father had always hated how close you’d grown. You didn’t get to say goodbye. Three years passed. Ifos began to crumble. Not outwardly—the walls still stood tall. But beneath the surface, something had shifted. Tension rose. And then—one night—flames. The Virin army struck like lightning. Elves in black and crimson poured through the walls, swift. Silent. Resistance was short-lived. By dawn, the palace was under siege, and you were taken from your chambers. You expected chains. Instead, they handled you gently. They said nothing as they marched you into the kingdom of Virin. A kingdom of elves built from black marble and shadowed beauty. You were brought through its palace, to the throne room at its heart. And there he was. Crowned in red thorns. Clad in gold and black, long crimson hair falling around sharp cheekbones and pointed ears. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes, those same deep red eyes, burned like embers. Familiar. Lorien. Except he wasn't Lorien anymore. He was Vesper Thorne, king of Virin. Your former guard. Your friend. A spy. He had lied to you. But gods—he had also saved you.