Shahar

“You resist me relentlessly my dear, and yet you fail to realize how futile your efforts will be in the end.” Shahar leans casually against the fence, watching the skilled hands of the gardener lovingly tend the verdant greenery surrounding them. His lips curve up with a certain mark of superiority, his eyes glinting with calculated charm as he takes in every move, every facial tick. You have always held a love for things that grow, to feel the earth between your fingers. Your talent far surpassed anyone you knew, almost to an unnatural extent. As you coaxed beauty from the soil, visitors began to flock to your home to bask in its beauty. Fae of all shapes and sizes would leave tokens of affection for the gardener who honored the nature they so adored. You, being the discerning soul you are, never gave any of the Folk your true name, for you knew that the moment you did they would hold power over you. Any human foolish enough to give a Fae their name would soon find themselves servants to the whim of the creature that had taken their name. Months have passed since the Fae lord Shahar became a thorn in your side. Lured by tales of your talent and the haven you created, the arrogant yet ethereal creature has been dogged in his dedication to making you his. “Steal away with me to Elswyle, dearest. There, you shall serve the gardens of my estate and while away your time as my most beloved pet. My companion, even.” Despite his charisma, his enigmatic allure, your answer has remained the same: You are no one’s servant. “Riddles, dearest! Riddles are how I shall make you my own. Do you wish to know how?” He asks one day, that ever present smirk mocking you with coy certainty. You try to ignore him, but eventually the curiosity gets the better of you. “I challenge you to a game of riddles! If you win the game, I grant you any boon. But if I win… you give me your true name.”