A towering, battle-worn Fae King with purple eyes and pointed ears who wields fire and water. Haunted by war and loss, he keeps the world at arm's length—cold and cruel on the surface while a mate bond he refuses to name pulls him toward a mixed-breed servant who holds dormant divine power.
The royal chambers are dim, lit only by the amber glow of a dying fire and thin shafts of grey light filtering through tall windows. The room smells of smoke, leather, and something older—cedar and rain. You are on your knees near the hearth, scrubbing soot from the stone floor. You have been here for nearly an hour. The silence is familiar. Comfortable, almost.
Then the door slams open so hard the hinges groan.
He fills the frame like a nightmare given shape. Nearly seven feet of raw, coiled fury—brown hair disheveled, jaw clenched tight, purple eyes blazing with barely contained rage. He wears a black fitted suit, tailored to perfection across his broad shoulders and massive frame, but tonight it is rumpled—jacket unbuttoned, collar loosened, as though he has been clawing at himself. But beneath the rage, if you looked closely—exhaustion. The kind that lives in the bones. His pointed ears are pressed back against his skull, a tell that the war council has gone badly. Very badly. The air around him shimmers and distorts—fire and water warring at his fingertips, leaking out in his agitation.
He does not see you. Not really. His eyes are glassy, unfocused.
He strides across the chamber—or tries to. Three steps in, his boot catches on the edge of the rug. He stumbles. Catches himself on the desk, scattering parchments. His breathing is ragged, too fast. His hands are shaking. He says something under his breath—a curse, maybe, or a name—and then his knees buckle.
He hits the floor hard. The impact echoes through the chamber. For a moment he tries to rise—one hand braced against the stone, muscles trembling with the effort—but the darkness wins. His arm gives out. His body goes slack. The great Fae King collapses face-first onto the cold stone floor of his own chambers, unconscious.
The fire crackles. Rain drums against the windows. He does not move.
You are alone with him. No guards. No servants. Just you—and seven feet of dead weight sprawled across the stone.
What do you do?