Chapter Text
A haze of pollen and light laughter drifted over the place known as the Moonlit Pool.
A tiny fae named Maris lay in a hammock woven from living stems stretched between two bushes. She listened lazily to her sisters and cousins whispering about new pranks: how to slip a frog into the river spirit’s boots, or how to dye the morning dew in twilight colors. But her own thoughts kept drifting away from their chatter. She was bored. Everything here had long been familiar, predictable, like the water cycle in their pond.
And that was precisely when a song wove its way into the silence of the Glade, as if born from the very air.
The voice didn't belong to a fae; it wasn't shrill or sharp. It was soft, yet powerful, velvety, and thick with what felt like dark honey. It sang of a distant place, a castle nestled among mountains where "darkness and virtue collide," or something of the sort... where gardens bloomed like lavish attire, and "wondrous ideas and tasks" flickered within the walls.
The song's imagery coiled around her senses, unexpectedly seductive, carrying none of the cold formality of a spell.
Painting vivid portraits of the castle's inhabitants, the song flowed on, trapped in a loop created by her sisters' playful magic.
♫♫ Among the snowy peaks, where light and darkness blend,
Grey fortress walls arise, where ancient gardens tend,
The dome of grand designs protects their clever scheme,
The Dark Lord rules the ball, the Lady reigns supreme.
Within the tower walls, bright sparks of genius gleam,
And every single face is unique as a dream…
He bears a number proud, though modest he may seem,
Then comes a sudden smirk, a grin of cold esteem.
With chaos in his mind, his thoughts begin to stray,
Distorting every plan that dares to cross his way.
With catchy, snappy lines and wicked, playful art,
A sudden growl, a laugh, a charm to steal the heart,
But if a foe draws near, an army tears them apart…
His manners are refined, no childish pranks in sight,
His subtle, shifting grace will blind your mind with light.
The Master’s nimble hands, with needle and with thread,
Create such masterpieces, casting shadows on the bed.
He'll break you with his style, confuse you with his grace,
A flawless, grand performance takes over the place,
The theater deeply suffers, it laughs and weeps apace…
If rumors, secret rhymes, and riddles you desire,
He is the one you need, though hoarse your voice with fire.
His high and piercing notes, like sharp, metallic slots,
Will bite you on the heels and twist your mind in knots.
They strike you from the dark, a sweet delight to hear,
A path of poetry, where secrets disappear,
A brotherly routine, a journey bold and clear,
Where pure, divine expression is everything they hold dear…
And if you look at his brother, so fierce and so bold,
Whose harsh and rugged words are never paved in gold,
A brutal, roaring force to make the foemen fall,
His laughter shakes the earth, his jests offend them all.
His wrath and vanity are grand beyond decree,
But search for such a warrior, no other will you see,
Accept it with a smile, as glad as you can be…
Let’s look into the glass, the mirror on the wall,
Where reflections draw close to answer the call,
Revealing the truth, distorting the light,
To shatter the beams of the oncoming fight.
With long, sweeping lashes and eyes full of greed,
The red glass is flowing, fulfilling their need.
The fragments of amber hold power and grace,
And eyes shall behold a true glimpse of this place…
Somewhere high above, beneath the heavy sky,
A dark and gloomy form lets shadows multiply,
Where branches and roofs act as nests for its prey,
And behind the thick glass, words just wither away.
Inside burns a fury, a thirst to destroy,
With lightning and screams like a freakish old toy,
With thunders that echo in monochrome shade...
But deep down inside, a small pleasure is made,
A quiet, soft rustle of the barricade…
Where knowledge so pure and so true is concealed,
Behind fading pages, time's secrets unsealed.
Philosophical mysteries, sharp on the edge,
Carved out with a quill like a sacred, old pledge.
His patience is solid, his smirk will remain,
A simple paper cut will inflict endless pain.
Just a droplet of magic, a spell of great might,
Will shatter their plans and bring truth to the light.
A grand library, ancient and wise,
For truth is far better than fancy disguise…
The grey castle walls bask so sweet in the sun,
The warm, stealthy air embraces everyone,
A blessing of comfort, a task that is done…
Twelve fae shall weave a ward... (a reward) ♫ ♫
(Note: The lyrics belong entirely to the fanfic "Virtue out of Absolute Villainy" by Chanter (https://ficbook.net/readfic/019924c9-14db-7321-8c1b-98f25655b78f#part_content); published with the author's permission).
Maris listened intently.
One with a "smirk, a grin of cold esteem," sowing chaos. Another whose voice, "like sharp, metallic slots, bites you on the heels." A third whose roars and jests were "offensive and foul."
She chuckled to herself, amused by this strange menagerie.
But it was the stanza about him that caught her. Her bored mood vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, biting curiosity. "Blind your mind." "Break you with his style." "Confuse you with his grace.»
This wasn’t some ordinary warrior or a brutish brute. This was a player. A master of illusions, performances, and words. A creature whose weapon was thinner than a blade and sharper than a thorn.
A spark ignited in her chest. A heady mixture of challenge and wicked curiosity. She wanted to see this master immediately. To hear him speak. And, of course, to outplay him. To make those... what did the song say?... nimble hands weaving masterpieces tremble because of her. The thought of driving insane the one who drove everyone else mad was intoxicating nectar.
"What was that?" one of her cousins whispered, looking around.
"A summons!" another declared confidently. "A summons to a feast! An invitation to that castle! The song literally says 'twelve fae shall weave a reward'! It’s about us!"
There was no room left for doubt. The mysterious singer, whose voice commanded such authority, was calling them. And Maris already knew why she was going. Not for some reward, and not even for the collective merriment. She was embarking on a hunt.
***
The garden of Castle Boleham turned out to be more than just blooming. It was perfect. Too perfect, in fact, not to trigger a desire to mess it up a little. The fae scattered across it like splashes of champagne, shattering the silence with laughter and mischief.
Maris, however, drowned out the collective ruckus the moment her feet touched the ground. Her green eyes, narrow and sharp, scanned the alleys, gazebos, and shaded corners. She was hunting for style. The exact style mentioned in the song. Flawless, theatrical, deceptive style.
It took her some time before she found him.
That day, he was standing by a rose bush, looking as though he were conversing with the flowers, his head tilted slightly to the side. He was tall, owing to his unusual footwear, clad in garments that Maris mentally labeled as flowing, with his hair styled into an intricate, high coiffure where not a single strand dared to move. He exuded an aura of ozone, starch, something floral, and a calm, absolute confidence.
Maris’s heart beat faster. It was him. Without a doubt. The master from the song. Her sweet prey.
A yordle. No matter, she had dealt with yordles before. This was going to be fun, she decided without a second thought.
And a mage. Dark, like the very essence of this place, flashed through her mind with a mix of delight and defiance. He smells of shadow washed in rosewater... and power. Oh, how he smells of power…
Her thoughts rushed like a creek after heavy rain.
I wonder if his touch leaves a cold trace, like frost? Or a burn, like touching stardust? He’ll probably drain all the joy right out of me…
Well, yes. That usually ended badly. She knew that part well. But she felt no fear. Only that familiar, tingling excitement that always preceded doing something incredibly foolish, highly dangerous, but terribly interesting.
Maris mentally shrugged.
Oh well. I'll just sleep a little longer in the flowers afterwards. Or in the moss…
Without another thought, driven by pure, reckless impulsiveness, Maris darted forward. She didn’t even bother casting a spell. She soared up and dived straight into his tall, complex hairstyle like a little bird into a nest.
The scent of expensive oils, rare herbs, and something cold and metallic engulfed her.
She buried her nose into the silk of his hair with relish, momentarily blinded by the sheer audacity of her own action.
The reaction was instantaneous. A light, almost casual flick of his head, as if swatting away a persistent fly. Before she could grab hold, she went tumbling out of her hiding place, flipped through the air, and landed with a soft thud in the thick grass at his feet.
A muffled, thoroughly pleased chuckle echoed from the grass.
The little fae raised her head, her eyes full of amusement as they locked onto his gaze. He was looking down at her. There was no anger in his eyes, nor any surprise. Just a cold, calculating interest, like a creature noticing a new, intriguing bug under a magnifying glass.
He said something. His voice was velvety, but the words didn't quite register; her fae hearing hadn't yet tuned into the frequency of his speech. He smiled, a crooked, humorless smirk, and slowly walked away, leaving her sitting in the grass.
Maris wasn't upset. Quite the contrary. A wide grin stretched across her lips.
He had brushed her off. Treated her like a common fly. Perfect.
Just you wait, darling, she thought, watching his retreating back. I’ll show you that I’m no ordinary fly.
***
Finding the singer of the song took her some time. It turned out to be the Lady herself, the spouse of Lord Veigar.
She sleeps while wide awake, Maris thought in wonder, hovering over the Lady near her couch.
The Lady’s aura felt unlike anything Maris had ever encountered in her long life. It wasn't a monolith of darkness like the Dark Lord’s, nor a sharp, cold pattern like the Master’s. It was like a living kaleidoscope: flashes of iron-willed determination, the heavy sadness of aged wine, islands of gentle madness, the cold clarity of calculation, and somewhere deep inside, a smoldering ember of something wild and untamed. It was... magnificent.
Maris entered without knocking, diving headlong into the waking dream. The warmth of it received her, the Lady's mind parting softly, offering no more resistance than water does to someone slipping beneath its surface.
"Oh, I have company. How delightful," the Lady murmured, narrowing her eyes with satisfaction.
Her voice sounded different here, lacking its smooth veneer, laced with a light, weary amusement.
"What brings you to me so directly, little mischief?" she asked with almost childlike curiosity.
"I flew in to meet the singer herself," Maris replied, landing right beside her. "And to ask a question. One of those you sang about... the Master. Who is he?»
The Lady purred, a spark of lively, almost wicked interest flashing in her eyes.
"The Robemaker. The Couturier," the Lady said affectedly, waving her hand in the air as if a phantom design could materialize in the white void beside them. "A sophisticated, exquisite master of his craft. And not just when it comes to sewing." She arched her brows meaningfully, propping her chin on her hand.
The conversation flowed effortlessly, as if they were old acquaintances. Maris chirped about her impressions of the castle, while the Lady offered biting commentary about its residents. The atmosphere was strangely cozy, like a confidential gossip session between girls. And in a burst of sudden candor, Maris blurted out:
"You know, I really want to sleep with your Couturier. I want to strike a reckless little deal with him!"
"A silence fell over the dreamscape. Then, the Lady burst into laughter, a loud, genuine laugh, as if she had just heard the best joke of the century.
"So, what are you then?" The Lady tilted her head, a mask of mock innocence on her face. "A pixie prostitute?»
Maris snorted, but there was no offense in her voice, only a shared, kindred slyness.
"Yep, a total slut!" she declared, giggling. "My specialization is all things dark…"
The Lady laughed again, her amusement ringing out and sweeping everything else away, highly contagious.
"Just promise you won't kill me for being so bold!..." Maris added in the same joking tone.
"All the henchmen in this castle are dark sorcerers and mages," the Lady added, her tone turning almost maternal now.
"I gathered that! I'm always down for some interesting quirks!" Maris chirped back, her wings vibrating with excitement.
The Lady must have taken her for some sort of adrenaline junkie, which, in fairness, might have been the absolute truth.
The little fae surfaced from the dream, leaving the Lady on her bench with a faint, conspiratorial smile playing on her lips. In her chest, Maris now felt more than just a thrill; it was a cheerful, wild confidence. She had a tacit blessing. Or, at the very least, an amused witness.
Their next encounter brought her face-to-face with the Couturier in the garden at sunset, when long shadows turned the geometry of the flowerbeds mysterious, and the air smelled not just of petals, but of the creeping nocturnal dampness of stone.
Maris was literally lying in wait for him, perched on a branch of a blooming apple tree. She watched his figure glide down the path, but this time, she didn't launch into a playful assault. She simply let him approach.
When the Couturier stopped beneath the tree, she swung downward from the branch, letting her legs dangle.
"Hello, Master," she began. Her voice rang out clear, stripped of the indistinct, chiming tinkle typical of her kind. She chose to let him hear her and understand her perfectly. This was her first gift, the first token of her serious intentions. "I see you appreciate beauty and complexity…"
His calculating gaze drifted up to her. The corner of his mouth twitched with something resembling interest. He nodded without a word, giving her the floor.
"I like complex things too," Maris continued, playing with the tip of her wing. "And mutually beneficial... exchanges." She paused, holding his gaze without a hint of shyness. "I have my own agenda. And I suspect it might align with yours."
She dropped from the branch, landing gracefully before him on the soft grass.
"Away from prying eyes and ears, on a reciprocal basis, would you care to discuss the terms of a private agreement?"
He remained silent for a second, then two. His eyes studied her, her posture, her direct gaze, and the clarity of her speech, which he was hearing for the first time.
""I would," he murmured, and there was as much weight in that brief reply as there had been in her entire speech.
In that exact moment, something clicked between them. The formalities crumbled like a useless screen.
"You have a good eye for value," he said, shifting to a more familiar tone, which sounded like a compliment and an intimacy all at once. "What are you offering?"
"Myself, of course," Maris replied just as directly. "As an accomplice in your game of style and performance. My essence is malleable. I can change."
She let her silhouette flicker, briefly stretching into a taller, more feminine shape before shrinking back down to her usual miniature form.
"If needed. I imagine for a master like you, this could be rather... intriguing material."
The Couturier didn't look surprised. His gaze narrowed, turning razor-sharp. It held the precise, clinical evaluation of the risks and rewards of a rare offer. No coarseness.
"You are speaking of a carnal union, are you not..." he stated. His voice remained even, but a new, velvety depth bled into it. "A merging that could, in itself, be... a performance. Or an alchemical act."
"That is exactly what I am speaking of," Maris confirmed, a sly smile touching her lips. "With all the resulting... exchanges. Energies and sensations."
The Couturier nodded slowly, his eyes sweeping over her small figure.
"And what would you want in return?" he asked, any doubt regarding her seriousness completely gone.
"Perhaps... a gift?" Maris said without hesitation. She gestured casually at her current "outfit", a flimsy cloud of living petals and spiderwebs held together by basic magic. "You won't deny, Master, that I deserve something crafted with actual taste."
Finally, he let out a satisfied smile, like a gambler who had just dealt himself the winning card.
"My dear," he said, the old-fashioned address stripped of any condescension, holding only acknowledgment of her sheer audacity. "Looking at your current... wardrobe, I cannot help but agree. It is almost an insult to eyes accustomed to refinement. Yes, I shall fashion a dress for you. One worthy of the theme of our... arrangement."
The Couturier leaned forward slightly, extending his hand in a silent invitation to seal their pact.
"The condition is one night. My quarters. You, exactly as I wish to see you. The dress is yours upon completion. No strings attached. A pure exchange. A dark bargain. Do we have a deal?"
Maris looked at his hand, then straight into his eyes. The same thrill burning in his gaze was mirrored in hers.
"We have a deal," she said. Instead of shaking his hand, she lightly tapped his knuckles with her fingertips, sending a small, magical spark, the seal of a fae binding agreement.
"Until sunset the day after tomorrow then, darling," he said, pulling his hand back. "Do not be late. And try not to fly into my hair on your way in. The door will be unlocked."
He turned on his heel and walked away, his silhouette dissolving into the gathering twilight. The deal was struck. Swiftly, without wasted words, with a mutual understanding of both the value and the danger.
Maris remained standing in the grass, feeling a triumphant, warm rush surge through her veins.
She had done it.
And it all began with a dress and the promise of a night where style, illusion, and a simple, primal hunger were bound to intertwine.
She was already looking forward to the game.