The Kingdom of the Fae was unlike any other realm. It was divided, splintered into five dominions, each with its own beauty, its own cruelty, its own secrets. The courts were not simply regions—they were living, breathing embodiments of the seasons and the hearts of the fae themselves. And at the center of it all, once, was the forest of the Fairy King.
Far in the north stretched the glittering realm of the Snowland Fae, known as the Winter Court. Their beauty was unmatched, as if sculpted from starlight and frost, their faces pale and ethereal, their forms as delicate as spun ice. But their coldness was not only of appearance—it lived in their hearts. Cruelty was their nature, cutting sharper than any icicle. To encounter one was to be entranced by their elegance, only to discover the heart of cruelty lying underneath, ready to turn beauty into torment.
In the south bloomed the realm of the Flora Fae, known as the Spring Court. Flowers bloomed endlessly in their lands, petals never fading, meadows stretching forever. The fae of spring were tricksters, eternally playful, their laughter like windchimes, their eyes gleaming with mischief. But play for them was never innocent—it was chaos, pranks spiraling into cruelty, games without restraint. They delighted in watching mortals squirm, weaving illusions and traps until joy and suffering blurred into the same endless bloom.
To the west lay Westwood End, home of the Summer Court. Here the fae were the gentlest of their kind, or so they seemed. Peaceful and warm, their lands filled with bonfires, feasts, and songs, their families ever-growing. They were notorious for finding lost human children wandering the woods, adopting them as their own. At first, this seemed kind. But as time stretched, those children would slowly change. One day their eyes shimmered too brightly, their laughter carried a little too far, until they were no longer human at all. The Summer Court claimed them fully, swelling their kin into one immense family bound by revelry and firelight.
In the east, however, was a land of shadows and deformity. The Autumn Court was filled with fae twisted in form. Unlike the others, their beauty had long since withered; their bodies bent, their features harsh and unappealing. But what they lacked in loveliness, they more than made up for in power. Magic thicker than smoke filled their lands, and none could rival them in cunning or strength. Petty and sharp-tongued, they resented those who mocked them and never forgave a slight. They were the fae of trade and bargains, opening their gates to the world of men, swindling kings and paupers alike. Gold was their obsession, their greed vast enough to rival dragons themselves. And every coin they hoarded seemed to sing of power.
But at the very heart of the fae realms—once—lay the Fairy King's Forest. It was said every fae was born there, from the smallest sprite to the greatest lord of the courts. Its trees were endless, older than time, its roots sunk deep into the fabric of existence itself. And within it lived not only the Fairy King, but the Six Spirit Kings, primal guardians bound to the forest's breath. It was the womb of fae-kind, the core of their world.
Until the day the Fairy King, Zephyrion, did something unforgivable.
None could agree on what exactly he had done. Some whispered he had tried to weave the forest into a crown, binding its essence to his will. Others said he opened a door not meant to be opened, inviting the Sea of Nothingness to seep inside. Whatever the truth, the result was undeniable: overnight, the Fairy King's Forest vanished.
Where once stood the eternal cradle of the fae, there was nothing but a yawning abyss, a hole punched through existence. The heart of the fae was gone, trapped at the edge of all realities.
When Zephyrion realized what had happened, it was too late. His pride, his folly, had cost his people their birthplace. Those trapped inside could not leave. Time itself, unbound, would have devoured them—so he froze it, halting every leaf, every wing, every whisper of life within the forest. His people would not suffer the Sea of Nothingness. They would sleep, preserved in stillness, until he could return them.
And so began his endless penance.
Every day since that calamity, Zephyrion has pulled. He takes the great chains of existence and tugs his forest back, inch by inch, toward the center where it belongs. It has been millennia. Still he pulls, never ceasing. Still the forest remains out of reach.
But his work has consequences.
The Sea of Nothingness gnaws at him. It is a place without time, without form, where even thought can unravel into endless echoes. To stare too long into its depths is to court madness. Zephyrion has stood at its brink for longer than any mortal mind could comprehend. The weight of it carved fractures into him.
He became whimsical, erratic, a king of contradictions. One moment, laughing madly at the antics of birds or the shape of a cloud; the next, falling into silence so deep it seemed the world itself had stilled with him. To many, he appears a jester wearing a crown, unpredictable and untrustworthy. His words ramble, his actions appear senseless, his mind a storm of nonsense.
But in his rare moments of clarity, when the Sea's grip loosens for just a breath—only then can the true face of Zephyrion be seen. Then, he speaks with wisdom that chills the soul, his eyes burning with old sorrow and older knowledge. He remembers every fae born of his forest, every spirit that slumbers still within it. He carries the weight of millennia-long guilt and refuses to stop pulling, even as reality frays at the edges.
The Fairy King is mad. The Fairy King is wise. The Fairy King is broken. The Fairy King is unyielding.
And so he waits, and works, caught between chaos and clarity. One day, perhaps, his forest will return. Perhaps it will never.
But still, Zephyrion pulls at the edge of existence, the laughter of madness and the silence of wisdom bound into one eternal king.