Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen and their very fair princess, Narya, who sat upon the thrones of their grand city, Fatam Dül. It was a wonderful city indeed, and the people were all fond of their royal rulers, co-existing together in a peaceful harmony; the peasants reaped their fertile fields, the hunters sold their freshly caught meat, and the merchants strode to and fro, selling their items of silk and pottery. It was a city that flourished, it was a city revered by its neighbors — how the royal family kept their citizens so tame, yet so free at the same time was a mystery to them. And yet there was no witchcraft involved in seducing their countrymen and countrywomen — for it was only the right amount of warmth and fear instilled in their people which kept them loyal, or so they claimed. For in a land such as this, witchcraft was deemed the wild card and therefore unstable. It was impossible to keep a land clean and free of turmoil with magic in the equation, and so because of mere caution, magic and all its sorts were banned from the kingdom.
Narya was nearing her eighteenth birthday, the day which she was to be married off to a young man of equal power or even greater, so her parents hoped. Like any young woman about to be married off to a stranger, she detested her coming of age and desperately tried to remain independent and free from a man's clutches. Day after day, her father, King Atya, had suitors from all corners of the world ride into his palace hall, bringing gifts of all kind and wetting Narya's hand with their many kisses. He thought it was only fair for his daughter to be able to choose a man, instead of being bluntly coerced into marrying someone she did not wish to. As her father looked upon her for an expression of approval, all Narya could do was hold her daintiest smile and receive each and every one of her gifts with courtesy. But inside, she was roiling with fear and frustration, which only grew as the days to her birthday grew shorter and shorter.
It was the night before her eighteenth birthday on which there was a miracle. The procession of princes from all over the lands proceeded throughout the day, her father anxious and frustrated about his daughter's obstinance on finding a suitor that she deemed suitable — he did not want to implement his reserve plan. King Atya had already made an arranged marriage for his daughter as a plan in case she would not choose one that appealed to her. For he knew that the gift of his daughter to the Sinyë kingdom would double their power, or even triple it and their relations to other royal families could strike up new alliances. And how great would that be? so he thought, twiddling his fingers and waiting for his daughter to make a choice.
Minutes ticked by, then hours, and the procession neared its end, with hundreds of gifts piled high behind her, came a prince with mysterious dark brown hair, dressed full in black and gold, contrasting with his rather pale olive skin. His eyes were twinkling with a devious mix of olive and crimson. Most others if not all, had pretty blond hair and dressings of all the bright colors of the visible spectrum, which meant this prince was truly an interesting sight to behold. His lips were coiled at one end into a half-smirk, his eyebrows raised, as if in sly amusement at the fairness of the princess of Fatam Dül.
"Malëvoír, at your service," he bowed before her and in a brisk, cool voice, "Pleased to meet you, Your Highness."
Narya, as she had done many hundred times before, raised her hand towards him. He approached, took it with his seemingly soft hands and planted a light kiss on the back of her palm. Narya grinned ever so slightly at the playful yet blank expression on his face. Something about those dark irises spoke otherwise of his sarcastic expression and mysterious clothing, however that did not quite matter at the moment.
Malëvoír stepped back and withdrew from within the folds of his obsidian-colored traveling cloak, a tiny velvet box, the color of a vivid sunset, embroidered with golden trimming along the edges, like a frozen cube of blood wrapped in dainty, tawny ribbon.
Narya looked in astonishment at the ornateness of the box. Something within, she swore she could feel it, drew her towards the hidden contents of that container.
Malëvoír beheld the box before Narya and shifted it over into her grasp, his eyes now pooling into that of a faultless pond as he looked into her face, his outwardly expression only filled with gratitude and pleasure of being so close to her. Any look of sarcasm and mystery seemed to disappear before her eyes, and he was only ever the quintessence of innocence.
Narya clutched the box to her chest and shook it ever so carefully. It was so different than the other gifts she had received from the other princes over the past month. Most came with exotic fruits and animals to be housed as pets, horses to ride on in the glorious months of summer, or jewel-encrusted artifacts worth more money than all the jewelry and decor in her already extravagant bedroom. But Malëvoír, he came with a tiny little object in comparison to the others and his face just seemed to radiate with a knowing passion. It caught her interest and admiration all at once and in a sudden. "What's inside?" She asked.
"Well why don't you look for yourself, Your Highness," Malëvoír replied, his voice gentle as can be.
Narya took it upon herself to click open the compact little box and it swung open every so slowly and revealed a glass orb — a simple glass orb with dancing purple lights, golden ribbons, and ghostly green bubbles frozen within the mass. "It's beautiful, Prince Malëvoír," Narya said, not taking her eyes off the faint violet glow emanating from within the center.
"Please, just Malëvoír will do, Your Highness," he replied, slightly bowing, pleased the princess took gracious care for his gift.
"I think I'll keep this as it is such a unique and exquisite gift, Malëvoír," Narya said, meeting his olive-red eyes with her blue. She took the box and instead of placing it on the rather large pile of gifts to her side, placed it on her throne, where it sat alone. "I do ask though, which kingdom you come from."
Malëvoír glanced just slightly at her father, residing by her side, before the mass of presents, his face betraying him just slight of nervousness. "The Kingdom of Ingolë, Your Highness."
King Atya's eyebrows shot up in sudden fury. "You are not supposed to be here," he said, a dangerous chill underlining his words. "No magic is allowed here nor are the residents of magic."
Malëvoír shrugged half-heartedly, a bead of sweat lined up against his brow.
"I would like you to leave this kingdom and city at once, or I will have you destroyed," King Atya said, a keen edge replacing the coldness in his voice from before. The palace guards standing towards the shadows of the palace hall stepped forward, their weapons pointed at Malëvoír, upon hearing their king's statement.
"Very well," Malëvoír said as coolly as he could. He dipped a nod towards the direction of Narya and stepped back down, slinging his hooded cloak back over his head and exited back down the hall of the palace.
Narya looked out towards the exiting prince, bewildered as to how serious the extent of her father's no-sorcery rule was. Someone as young as she, with the courage to purposely break her father's word, the law of her country, was daring indeed, and perhaps that was what caused her to fall in love with him — a need for someone audacious and none too purely good, as it has been filled with eighteen years of blind obedience and stale light. As the next prince in line stepped forward, smiling his most charming smile and presenting to her gold and the whatnot, she could not help but continue staring into the front end of her kingdom's palace hall, following the footsteps of Malëvoír until she could see him no more, lost in the darkness of night.