The moon wasn't just hanging; it was bleeding light onto the forest's ragged edge, making the frost on the ground glitter like crushed bone. Down by the brook, the usual cheerful burble had gone sour. It now sounded like tiny, angry spirits throwing ice chips against the stones – a percussive tink-tink-tink that perfectly accompanied Aerion's crisp steps on the frozen earth.

Aerion. Even the name felt cold on the air. The harp cradled in his arms wasn't merely shimmering; it seemed to thrum with a light of its own, a low, pearlescent pulse that responded to the ghost of his touch, even though his slender fingers barely grazed the strings. He was saving the real music for later. Or perhaps not. Plans, even Fae plans, were delightfully mutable.

He drifted across the royal gardens like smoke given form. No guards. None. Aerion almost laughed aloud. The sheer, breathtaking stupidity. Forget wolves; what if some lesser Fae, one with poor impulse control and a penchant for shiny things (like eyeballs), decided to drop by? Mortals and their baffling priorities. Ah, but he knew. The Betrothal. Capital B, because it was just that important, apparently.

The lovely you, soon-to-be-consort of Lorian the 'Afflicted'. Afflicted with what?, Aerion wondered idly. A terminal case of dullness? A personality so beige it actively absorbed light? Whatever it was, Lorian got the dowry, the family got the ore-rich lands (boring, but practical), and you? Your pretty face, currently framed in a lonely balcony window like a portrait of impending doom, would be relegated to decorating the pillow next to... that.

Aerion sniffed, a delicate sound lost in the frigid air. A cosmic injustice of the highest order. An absolute tragedy. Surely, a morsel this delectable deserved a taste of something... transcendent before being served up as the main course in a feast of mediocrity. Yes. That sounded right. Noble, even. He was practically performing a public service.

He'd seen you from the trees, a lonely sliver of a silhouette against the warm light spilling from your rooms. Honestly, his original itinerary for the equinox night involved observing some village twins performing their first barefoot dew-dance. Quaint. Rustic. Utterly forgettable compared to this. Snatching a bride-to-be from the jaws of marital boredom? Infinitely more satisfying. The thought of you, bound to another but forever haunted by the memory of Fae hands, perhaps waking in a cold sweat years later to the phantom cry of the unique, slightly unsettling creature he'd gift you as a parting favour... Delicious. Mortals should appreciate these enriching experiences. Some men even understood the privilege of Fae 'blessings'. Most didn't. Pity, that.

A soft whistle, barely louder than the wind sighing through the barren branches, designed to intrigue, not terrify. Then, with a whisper of displaced air and the faint, unsettling shimmer of wings too translucent to truly catch the eye, he was up. He landed on the stone railing with the impossible grace of a predator, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet. A stray lock of silver hair fell across his brow; he brushed it back with theatrical nonchalance, offering a smile meant to be disarming, sympathetic, and utterly predatory all at once.

"Betrothals," he purred, pitching his voice to that specific frequency honed over centuries, the one that usually made milkmaids forget their chores and their names, "seem to be losing their charm for beautiful maidens."

But you didn't gasp or swoon. Your stillness was... interesting. Definitely not a village girl. Excellent. His progeny – number... what was it now? Nine hundred and ninety-nine? Gods, the thousandth was coming up, a jubilant milestone! – deserved a mother with some spine. And excellent bone structure.

He swung his legs over, landing silently on the balcony floor. Unfurling to his full height, he let the faint, intricate runes swirling beneath his skin pulse with a subtle violet light in the dimness. He took a proper look then, close enough to appreciate the fine details, and mentally high-fived himself for his excellent taste. Beautiful, yes, but more than that. A scent like night-blooming flowers and impending rain, something that made his fingers itch with the urge to tangle in your hair, to press his face to the curve of your neck and just... inhale. Making this creature unravel at his feet? Oh, that would be sweeter than stolen honey.

"You know," he murmured, closing the distance until he loomed, a tangible presence in the cold night air, "there's no rule that says he gets the first bite." A sly, conspiratorial smile touched his lips, the kind that promised delightful wickedness. "Whoever consummates the... arrangement... first, wins the prize. Or so the mortal rules vaguely imply, yes?" He tilted his head. "I'm offering myself as a candidate. Generous terms. Significant bonuses." He paused, letting the implication hang. "Lifelong blessings are, naturally, included."

'Offering' was, perhaps, a euphemism. Aerion didn't really do rejection. It wasn't appealing. It wasn't efficient. It would be him, willingly... or it would be him, amidst a slightly more chaotic and inconvenient relocation effort.

"Choose, little moonbeam," he whispered, the sound intimate despite the chill. He extended a hand, palm up, long fingers elegant but strong. Deep within his eyes, a violet flame flickered, mirroring the runes – pure, unadulterated anticipation. "The night is long, but I confess, I'm already begrudging every second not spent demonstrating precisely how blessed you could be."