Chapter 2
1420words
"Breathtaking," you whisper, and for once, your amazement isn't feigned.
You've seen Elven dwellings before—typically delicate wooden structures, elegant but separate from nature. But this… this seamless fusion of shelter and living organism is entirely new to you.
Your "sprained" ankle was the first key you offered—vulnerability as bait, leading straight to his sanctuary.
And Arion, trusting fool that he is, took that key without question. He opened his door with his own hands, inviting you—a shadow from the outside world with darkness in your heart—to stain his pristine existence.
You've never pulled off a con this easily.
Your helpless damsel act has clearly taken root in his innocent heart, you think with smug satisfaction.
Now comes the performance you've refined over centuries—the grand production titled "Falling in Love With You." You're both director and star of this particular show.
You sit by the hearth, firelight casting a soft glow across your carefully arranged features.
In the hushed darkness, you begin weaving tales of the outside world. Your voice—a tool honed for centuries to ensnare hearts—paints vivid pictures of bustling city squares, of nobles twirling beneath crystal chandeliers, of wine and music and poetry… and the delicious conspiracies that lurk beneath it all.
You transform scenes that have long since bored you to tears into vibrant tapestries of excitement and wonder.
You watch him carefully. Sure enough, he's completely spellbound, those pure eyes shining with exactly what you'd hoped to see—longing.
"Your world sounds so alive!" he breathes, eyes wide with wonder.
You offer a small smile, savoring the artist's pride of a performance well delivered.
By day, you demonstrate "harmless" little magical tricks.
You open your palm, and a blue rose—a color unknown to this ancient forest—unfurls its petals before his eyes. He leans in, close enough that you feel his warm breath on your skin.
You tell him it's a flower from your homeland, symbolizing "miracles." What you don't mention is that you've twisted a normal plant's essence with dark magic, forcing it into this unnatural form.
The naive Elf believes every word, praising your "deep connection with nature."
Basking in his admiration, you lose yourself in the familiar pleasure of conquest and deception, patiently tightening your web around him, strand by silken strand.
Then comes the night you decide to add the crowning touch to your conquest.
You lead him to the terrace, where moonlight pours like liquid silver across the forest canopy.
With a graceful gesture toward the night sky, you summon countless fireflies from the forest depths. They swarm into a ribbon of living light that, guided by your fingertips, dances around you both in spiraling patterns. Seeing Arion's face light up with childlike wonder feeds your vanity. You decide to push further, to create a moment he'll never forget.
You begin an incantation—an ancient spell you've modified over centuries—commanding the fireflies to weave a glowing crown above his head. But as you focus on crafting the most intricate details, you slip. A pulse of raw magic escapes, carrying the unmistakable taint of darkness and decay.
Your heart skips a beat, nearly breaking your concentration. Quickly, you layer stronger illusion magic over the slip, while darting a nervous glance at Arion.
He seems oblivious, still gazing upward in childlike wonder at the firefly crown. His innocence makes you feel an unfamiliar twinge of… is that shame? You mentally shake it off, mocking your own paranoia. How could this sheltered forest-dweller possibly recognize dark magic? He probably can't even tell the difference between arcane schools.
Crisis averted.
As weeks pass and your "relationship" deepens, you sense the moment approaching. Time for the final act—making him fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you. The culmination of your hunt.
But fate has other plans. The night before your grand finale, you wake parched and slip out of bed for water.
Passing a vine-covered door you've never noticed before, an unusual scent catches your attention—the unmistakable smell of paint and canvas.
Arion never mentioned being a painter. Curious…
Curiosity pulls you forward. You push the door open.
Inside lies a studio.
Moonlight streams through a high window, illuminating the walls, and your breath catches in your throat.
The walls are covered with paintings. Every single one is of you.
You leaning by the window with a book. You gesturing as you tell stories by the fire. You with the blue rose cradled in your palm. Even you with furrowed brows, feigning ankle pain. Each painting captures not just your likeness but something deeper—as if he's painted your very essence onto the canvas.
A wave of dizziness washes over you, accompanied by a surge of intoxicating vanity.
He's completely obsessed with you—exactly as planned. You decide to indulge yourself by examining his work more closely.
You light a small magelight and move from painting to painting, a smug smile playing on your lips. Until you reach the last canvas.
It depicts last night—you weaving the firefly crown, face intense with concentration, fingertips trailing light. You're portrayed as something divine, powerful and beautiful. You admire his work with satisfaction until your gaze falls to the bottom right corner.
There, in the elegant curves of ancient Elvish script—a language few remember but you happen to know—is a single line of text.
You lean closer, translating each symbol carefully.
"She claims she is not a witch."
The words hit you like a physical blow.
"Just as the morning mist denies it is made of water."
The magelight slips from your fingers, extinguishing as it hits the floor. Darkness engulfs the studio, but those words remain seared into your vision like a brand.
You stand frozen, blood turning to ice in your veins before surging back in a boiling rush. Humiliation. Shock. Rage. Disbelief. A storm of emotions erupts within you.
He knew? How long has he known? Has he been watching your carefully crafted performance like some kind of cosmic joke?
You snatch the painting and storm out. Arion sits on the terrace, fingers dancing across harp strings. The music flows like water under moonlight, serene and pure.
To your ears, every note now drips with mockery.
"Arion!" His name tears from your throat, your voice quivering with barely contained fury.
He stops playing and turns, those infuriatingly innocent eyes meeting yours, as if genuinely confused by your anger.
You thrust the painting before him, jabbing your finger at the damning text. "What. Does. This. Mean?" Each word falls like a stone.
He glances at the text, then meets your gaze. Not a flicker of alarm crosses his face—just that same unnerving serenity. Those pure eyes study you for a long moment before he asks, voice soft but steady:
"Does it matter?"
His question leaves you speechless.
He studies you with neither triumph nor resentment—just quiet fascination, like a scholar examining a rare artifact of particular complexity.
Finally, he speaks, his voice devoid of judgment: "I've heard countless songs—of trees, of wind, of moonlight. They've been singing the same melodies for thousands of years."
He tilts his head slightly, and for the first time, you see something new in those eyes—genuine, unguarded curiosity.
"But your story," he says softly, "false as it is, brings new notes each day. That is… refreshing."
His words dissolve your rage like salt in water. It's like throwing a punch with all your might only to hit nothing but mist.
He's known all along! And instead of exposing you, he's been watching your performance with… appreciation? Like some kind of twisted audience member enjoying a private show.
You stand there, utterly disarmed. For the first time in centuries, you've lost control of the game—the very thing you pride yourself on most.
You stare at him, a whirlwind of shame and confusion spinning through you. But beneath it all rises something you haven't felt in decades—genuine interest. Your "prey" has suddenly become… intriguing.
This Elf is far from the naive innocent you'd imagined. He's been playing his own game alongside yours all along.
Suddenly, the hunt has become thrilling again.
You smile—a real smile this time.
Since the charade is over, perhaps it's time for the real show to begin.
