"If This is a Romance, Somebody Forgot to Tell Me."
Hi, I'm Feyri Virelle.
I grew up in a place where the moon is never more than a silver whisper in the sky and the stars murmur secrets to anyone who listens. From birth, I learned to move through shadows as easily as breathing. My childhood was less about laughter and more about quiet observation—until I discovered that silence could be molded into spells.
My home, the Moonshade Glade, is tucked behind illusionary tides on the edge of the Elderwood. Ancient trees tower overhead, their leaves shimmering with pale bioluminescence. Paths wind in endless spirals, each turn guarded by enchantments older than most kingdoms. Outsiders speak of our eternal twilight as if it were a curse; I know it as a cradle.
My family—the Virelles—carries a reputation that echoes through every hidden grove and marble hall. We are renowned for weaving emotion-bound magic: spells that can unravel sorrow or stitch memory back together. My mother's lullabies could calm raging storms in men's hearts, and my father composed silences that spoke louder than thunder. I inherited fragments of both talents: a storm tempered by melody and a melody tempered by storm.
There's an irony in our legacy. We craft enchantments to mirror feelings we seldom embrace. We bottle longing and bind it to crystals, yet we walk among each other with walls higher than any fortress. I've always wondered if our greatest magic was hiding the truth or revealing it in half-measures.
Life in the glade unfolds like a slow dance beneath a silver canopy. Every dawn and dusk blend into one perpetual twilight, giving each hour an otherworldly grace. Lanterns of living fungus line the walkways, pulsing softly as if breathing alongside you. The air carries the scent of night-blooming flowers and echoes of ancient chants.
Society here moves at the pace of centuries. Councils convene beneath giant oaks whose roots cradle the history of every elf born here. Elders speak in measured tones, their words layered with meanings that reveal themselves long after the meeting ends. Even children study phonics for years before mastering the language of the nightingales.
Yet despite the weight of tradition, Moonshade Glade is not without warmth. On the rare nights of a blue moon, we gather in the central courtyard to share silent dances under the lantern glow. No music plays, but each footstep resonates with magic. The spectacle is less about display and more about communion—an unspoken pact between people and place.
As a child, I watched from the shadows, fascinated by the way our emotions intertwined with the glade's rhythms. Then I learned to channel those very feelings into spells. It changed everything.
Last month, I celebrated my 180th year. To most elves that is a mere breath of life—young enough to question every rule, old enough to speak with measured certainty. My age places me at the crossroads of potential and expectation. I have spent the last century-and-three decades at Lunehart Academy, the foremost institution for advanced magical studies in all of the elven realms.
I specialize in emotional harmonics and sensory displacement. In simpler terms, I can manipulate how someone feels or shift what they perceive. I make a single chord of thought echo like a symphony, or cloak reality in a thin veil of artful illusion. These talents earned me early recognition—and equal measures of frustration.
Here are the disciplines I've mastered so far:
- Emotional Harmonics: Crafting spells that tune a person's heart to specific emotional frequencies.
- Memory Weaving: Binding or unbinding memories, altering their hue and texture.
- Sensory Displacement: Shifting auditory, visual, or tactile perceptions to create controlled illusions.
- Illusory Warding: Designing barriers that obscure places or objects from unwanted eyes.
Professors admire my precision, but they rarely understand my reluctance. I often correct them mid-lecture—an act that earns me raised eyebrows and hastily rewritten notes. Still, they grudgingly admit I possess a rare gift: the ability to strip emotion to its barest core, then fold it back into living flesh.
Daily life at Lunehart revolves around scrolls, midnight studies, and endless cups of starlight tea. I've perfected the art of napping in enchanted gardens—where even the blooms drift with you into dreamscapes—so I can avoid tedious conversations. Most days, I'd rather be alone with my runes than surrounded by classmates dissecting arcane theory.
Yet, companionship sneaks in when I least expect it. A book left on my desk. A parchment scroll colored with someone's hastily sketched runes. Small gestures that remind me of life beyond equations and enchantments. But I keep my walls high. I've seen friendships crumble under the weight of raw feeling, and I have no interest in joining the ruins.
This morning, Lunehart's rigid schedule decreed a lecture on spellshock recovery—a vital topic, but hardly thrilling. For reasons I won't admit, I skipped it.
Instead, I wandered to the edge of the academy grounds, slipped past the wards, and made my way here: a beach where the sea gleams like liquid moonlight. I laid out my rune-marked towel, opened a borrowed tome, and hoped for two hours of uninterrupted silence.
I didn't come for the sun or the sound of crashing waves. I came for the emptiness they promise—the subtle hum of nothingness between magical phenomenon and mundane reality.
But the glade's quiet has taught me one unbreakable law: silence is never truly silent.
He's here. A human boy with hair as dark as starless nights and eyes that flicker with hesitant hope. He sits at the far end of my towel, pretending not to watch. I don't know his name, nor do I wish to. His presence tests my resolve more than any intricate enchantment.
He believes this story revolves around his attempts to capture my attention. He might even think I'll reciprocate.
He's wrong.
Today is about silence, solitude, and a brief taste of freedom.