The Seasonless Court pulsed with impossible beauty, a place where logic went to die and dreams bled into nightmare. Its architecture shimmered with contradictory geometry: staircases curled into skyless voids, mirrors reflected futures instead of faces, and fountains poured wine that whispered secrets if one dared to drink. The Court sat at the juncture of all four seasonal realms, yet obeyed none. It was a neutral ground in name only—a stage for veiled threats and glittering deceptions. Here, the seasonal kings and their envoys came not to make peace, but to posture.
King Halren of Spring, ethereal and eternally youthful, observed the court from a throne of woven thorns and emerald glass, his gaze unreadable beneath lashes that fluttered like new petals. Opposite him lounged King Vireon of Summer, bare-chested, sunburned, golden-eyed, drinking nectar from the curved horn of a slain leviathan. No sign of Queen Maereth of Autumn, whose absence, some whispered, was more dangerous than her presence. And from the Winter throne, empty and encrusted in rime, came only silence—Lady Mira Lune stood in proxy, her breath misting even in the impossible warmth.
Lady Evangeline played her part with elegance honed over centuries. Draped in robes of moss and silk, her steps left trails of blooming clover in her wake. She spoke of alliance and balance, of healing the broken threads of the Binding Circle, but her every word was a layered poem, her meaning buried threefold. Lord Solen, meanwhile, grew restless. His golden braids sparked with contained lightning, and the veins beneath his skin glowed faintly with fire. "Enough riddles," he growled, rising. "Let us speak of the rebels—the Unbound—the ones tearing holes in the Accord while we sip starlight and pretend unity." His voice cracked like thunder, silencing lesser fae. Yet Evangeline only smiled. "And who among us," she said sweetly, "is truly bound?" Around them, tension thickened. The emissaries of the Fae military—the Vineguard of Spring, the Blazeborn of Summer, and the Wraithcloaks of Winter—watched one another like predators in a thinning wood. Spymasters like Lord Caelen Drayke drifted between alliances, weaving whispers into weapons. It was said Caelen had once seduced a mortal queen into handing over her nation's soulstone. Others claimed he never spoke truth unless the lie would cost more.
In a secluded alcove high above the assembly, Mira Vale leaned over the balcony rail, her heart pounding. She had begged her mother for a chance to visit the Fae enclaves under the pretense of "cultural exposure," but her true motive was far more naive: fascination. And now, standing beneath veils of scented mist, she watched as creatures older than time debated the fate of the world with the ease of actors rehearsing an ancient play. Lord Caelen caught her gaze once, and winked. Mira nearly fell from her perch. To her, he was every fae tale come to life: dangerous, beautiful, impossible. She didn't see the glint of calculation in his eyes, nor the way his fingers danced near the sigil etched into the side of his chalice—a cipher for Winter's old magic. She didn't hear the whisper of Lady Mira Lune's voice behind her, cold as snowfall: "Curiosity is a flame, child. Be careful what it burns."
Back on the court floor, the conversation shifted. General Thelyros of the Summer Blazeborn, clad in armor forged from living flame, declared that the fae armies should march before the humans fractured the Accord entirely. "The Lykaen sniff at our borders. The humans drill their weapons. The vampires breed faster than they die. We are the only ones who do not fear war—why not bring it?" he roared. His blade sang in its scabbard, thirsty for blood. Lady Evangeline countered smoothly, "And what will we rule, Thelyros, when all is ash?" King Halren merely blinked, as if the debate amused him. The court devolved into bickering—Summer's generals bristling with heat and hunger, Spring's envoys weaving metaphor into protest, Winter's Wraithcloaks watching like wolves beneath snow. Only Autumn's seat remained untouched, a hollow reminder that something—or someone—was missing.
As the gathering neared its end, the air rippled with quiet magic. A minor seer from the Spring court, draped in lichen and spider-silk, convulsed mid-ritual. Her eyes turned white. Her voice dropped to a guttural croak as she spoke prophecy: "The Tear weeps. The Binding cracks. A child of war shall wear the mark and bring ruin to the circle of crowns." The room stilled. Even Lord Solen's fire dimmed. Whispers erupted. Eyes turned to the spymasters. Questions darted like knives behind every polite smile. Lady Evangeline's knuckles whitened on her cup. Lord Caelen's smile grew sharper. And high above them, Mira Vale turned away, unaware that the prophecy had already begun to root itself in her blood. The Seasonless Court would soon become a battlefield not of swords, but of secrets. And in the Fae realms, secrets were always the deadliest weapons.