From the hidden hollows of Ever Land, where even moonlight dared not linger, the pact between the banished fairies and the ancient shadows bore fruit.
The Fomori.
Born not of land nor sky, but of resentment and ruin, they were towering beasts with eyes like eclipses and blood that hummed with forbidden magic. Their claws scraped against stone with quiet menace; their horns, jagged as lightning, scraped the ceilings of the caverns. Some exhaled venom that curled through the air like living smoke. But no two Fomori were the same—each reflected the twisted desires of the dark fairies who created them, each a unique testament to malice, to a hunger to unmake the world they had once cherished.
And among them rose one—different, unsettling, almost… human.
George.
He did not crawl from the shadows like the others. He did not snarl or shriek, nor did he bow to the monstrous whims of his kin. He walked upright. He spoke with a calmness that unsettled even the most feral Fomori. To his brethren, he was both pride and threat—too clever, too cunning, too touched by something that was not their own.
They did not know that a single, desperate dark fairy, hoping to preserve even a fragment of light, had brushed his creation with a shard of Noctis before vanishing forever. A whisper of the younger moon pulsed within him, hidden beneath layers of shadow, a heartbeat of light buried under centuries of malice.
George was refinement made flesh, darkness tempered by something unseen. While the others wore their rage like armor, he carried his like a silken cloak, smooth and deceptive, a veneer that concealed the storm beneath. Patient, observant, and infinitely curious, he watched the world beyond the hollows—the world of gods and mortals—with a hunger that was both intellect and instinct.
He saw how the gods adored their mortal creations, how they walked among them in disguise, fell in love under starlight, and left traces of their lineage in demigods. George studied these stories not to imitate them, but to twist them. If the gods could mark Ever Land with their children, why couldn't he?
And so, he waited.
Cloaked in the guise of human civility, he slipped past the watchful eyes of the Sentinel Guardian—unseen and unstoppable. He walked among humans, learning their language, mimicking their laughter, their longings… perhaps even better than they ever could. Every movement, every gesture, was calculated, a performance honed with the precision of a predator.
Seven feet tall, with a body carved like marble and a jawline sharp as blades, George was impossible to ignore. His eyes glimmered molten gold, mirrored in his hair, a light so unnatural it seemed almost divine. His voice could lull or command, smooth as velvet yet carrying the weight and roar of a lion. But behind every smile, a storm raged. Behind every touch, a curse waited, patient and lethal.
Among humans, he was a ghost wearing flesh. He walked their streets, listened to their music, drank their wine, and memorized every nuance of their lives. To them, he was a man of mystery, captivating and unnerving. He studied their joys, cataloged their fears, and stored every secret in the silent vault of his mind, ready to wield them when the time came. And still, no matter how perfect his mimicry, the shard throbbed—a reminder of a destiny not yet written.
A shard of Noctis pulsed beneath his skin, its whispers tugging at his mind, promising glimpses of a power he had yet to command. It was a reminder that he was not merely darkness incarnate—he was something more, something rare and dangerous. And yet, it was also a tether, a vulnerability, one he had not fully understood.
He moved among humans, unnoticed yet omnipresent, absorbing their desires, their fleeting joys, their heartbreaks. And yet, always, there was a gnawing unease, a sense that he did not belong among them. Their laughter felt foreign, their warmth fleeting, their very lives a rhythm he could not match. He marveled at their naivety, their ease in loving and being loved—a freedom he could never truly grasp. Many women approached him, drawn by his presence, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not make a move, could not feign connection.
And then—she appeared.
Not fully, not yet. Just a flicker of wings, a glimmer near the music box—but enough to stop George mid-step. His breath caught, heart faltering, and all his plans, his patience, his cunning, seemed suddenly fragile. Time slowed, the air thickened, the shadows around him recoiled as if in awe.
She was breathtaking. Not merely in beauty, but in presence. Moonlight seemed to bend around her, framing her in a glow that made everything else fade. Her skin shimmered like snow kissed by moonlight; her eyes were deep and tumultuous, oceans stirred by a storm, impossible to look away from. Golden hair, sometimes tied loosely, sometimes cascading like threads of sunlight, caught every fragment of starlight, weaving it into her very being. Her lips were soft, a quiet mischief playing upon them, hinting at secrets too vast to guess.
George, born of shadows and trained to manipulate light, found himself utterly disarmed. Every strategy he had crafted, every plan to infiltrate, to twist, to conquer, unraveled in an instant. She was light made living, and he… he had no defense against it.
He stepped closer, drawn by a force he could not name. Every instinct screamed caution, yet every fiber of his being compelled him forward. The shard pulsed, urgent, warning and enticing in the same breath. He had been trained to master darkness, to command fear, to wield destruction—but here was something he could not control.
The shadows around him quivered, as if aware of the danger she posed—not to the world, but to him.
And then—a movement. Behind her, swift and deliberate, a figure stirred. George's instincts flared. Every muscle tensed, every nerve alight. He was ready for battles he had fought a thousand times—but this? This was something he had never anticipated.
Time held its breath.
And then—