Chapter 1: Flight from Apathy

“It has been 143 years—143 long years spent confined to the Feywild. I can bear it no longer. Every waking moment of my life, for nearly a century and a half, has been consumed by the meticulous control of the two miserable creatures I have been forced to call my parents. I have existed solely as a marionette under their unyielding watch, stripped of autonomy until even my most recent action was not mine but theirs. They do not desire me as a person; rather, they seek a soulless, unthinking construct—one fashioned by erasing all that renders me real and alive. Every emotion has been replaced by unyielding commands and predetermined objectives. I must perform flawlessly, for they demand perfection. I despise them—for the way they subjugate me, for training me as one might a mere beast while denying me the simple, unconditional affection afforded to a loyal animal. I refuse to be considered less than a creature, let alone the son of monsters such as them.

In public, the illustrious Quintessence Aurelia Alderwood—the Archfey and esteemed guardian of the Autumn Court—exhibits the carefully crafted mask of a compassionate, generous father, nurturing a refined child with a tender love. To the world, he is the epitome of perfection, an idol that all who encounter him aspire to emulate. Yet behind closed doors, he reveals himself as nothing more than a cold, cruel man, his heart devoid of true affection save for the vanity and self-obsession ignited by his own reflection. He never loved me, nor did he cherish my mother—or even his relationship with my step-father. His affection is reserved solely for himself and the accolades bestowed upon him by his worshippers. I surmise that some twisted fey bargain was what forced him to keep me, for in no world would he have willingly taken me in. And now I am a mere pawn to further his own ambitions. I despise him above all, for he has robbed me of every facet of individuality, even inscribing his own name into mine. My very name—Morrison Aurelius Alderwood—serves as a constant reminder of his desire to bask in my supposed glory.

My step-father, Zenith Abaddon Alderwood, fares no better. Renowned as the notorious assassin of the Winter Court—the Poison Arrow of the Unseelie—he is a man of few words whose every action is calculated with a chilling precision. Trained solely in the art of death, he executes his duty not for accolades or reward, but because he deems it necessary—a means of “fulfilling the debt that is due.” Though my father thrives on deceit and manipulation, Zenith’s cruelty is of a different order. He regards me as little more than an empty husk, one to be molded into a ruthless, emotionless killer in his own grim image. He has never hesitated to remind me of my weakness, my insignificance, and my utter uselessness. To both, I am nothing. I have endured a life unworthy of existence, and come morning, I shall vanish, leaving them never to see me again. I grieve not for the Feywild itself—a realm of ineffable beauty—but for the life I might have known had I been nurtured by someone capable of love. I shall not return here without a blade in hand and the mark of battle upon my face. Perhaps one day, peace will find me; until then, I will disappear.”

With an iridescent feather quill in hand and deep blue ink trailing onto his parchment journal, Morrison committed these final words to paper. He knew this would be the last entry recorded in the Feywild. He closed the leather-bound book, pausing to trace the intricately engraved design upon its cover—a silver, leaf-shaped indentation bearing his father’s family symbol. A surge of unease and fear washed over him as his delicate blue fingers linger on that emblem. For a moment, he wondered  if this drastic choice is truly for the best. Yet he quickly dismissed his doubts, resolving that nothing in the worlds beyond could rival the torment of his current existence. 

“I want more; I deserve better.”

The journal was hastily shoved into the weighty travel pack he had assembled—a bag not of his own but rather a thick leather satchel pilfered from the guards’ quarters days ago, in preparation for his escape. Though he lacked many things needed for life on the run, he had secured those items necessary for his journey by stealthily gathering practical supplies from the sprawling palace he had long called home. As the son of the Autumn Court’s esteemed Archfey, he was forbidden from roaming the hallowed halls of the Crimson Palace unsupervised. While he once possessed luxuries befitting his near-royalty, he now needed to rely on the humble and the utilitarian. For weeks preceding his planned escape, he had furtively slipped away under the cloak of dusk to collect simple garments, a sturdy cloak from the servants’ reserve, heavy boots, and the very pack he now was stuffing full—all while evading the ever-watchful palace guards. He secured preserved foods and a water container from the kitchen pantry, sufficient to feed him until he could find other food in the wider world he would be traveling to. In a calculated risk, he also snagged a sword from his stepfather’s private quarters—a long, elegant rapier of greenish-silver colour, adorned with a solitary opal on its pommel, forged of solid, cold iron. Such an iron blade, dangerous to fey and faerie alike, stands in stark contrast to the weapons favored by the palace guards. A blade such as it would only be found in the hands of fairy hunters and the Unseelie assassins, which Morrision’s stepfather was the latter of. Among his few cherished possessions were his writing and drawing implements—a hobby that remained uniquely his own. Although maps of the Feywild are plentiful, not a single recent map of the Material Plane existed in the palace that he could locate. Blessed with both an artistic touch and rigorous academic training, he was confident that he could chart a course as he traveled, drawing inspiration from any maps he hoped to encounter.

With all the necessary items gathered and the final addition of his personal journal secured, Morrison was ready for his grand escape. The only foreseeable obstacle was the ever-vigilant guards at the front gate of the Crimson Palace, who maintain a ceaseless watch over the estate. Fortuitously, his timing of escape plans aligned with one of the rare intervals during which the gate remains unguarded. To escape the Feywild, Morrison required a gateway to the Material Plane—a location where the veil between magic and the mundane grows thin. Such thinning of magical borders occurs most notable during the All-Season Solstice, a rare event in which fey from every court set aside their quarrels to engage in a night of revelry and celebration. Amid the solstice’s chaos, the guards’ watch is essentially obsolete, and the amassed magic of the fey rends the veil, forming portals large enough for passage between realms. This was the opportune moment for his departure.

That very night, as Morrison sat alone in his chamber within the Crimson Palace, he listened to the distant sounds of revelry in the forest not far beyond its walls. Clad in formal regalia—a set of vibrant blue and purple robes with silver trim befitting an Archfey’s son, and a crown of twisting deep purple branches gleaming with thorns—he felt an overwhelming sense of dehumanization. The forced display of royalty, only to be subsequently ignored as his father celebrated in the solstice’s grandeur, filled him with revulsion and rage. It was in that fury that the urgency of his escape was sealed, all prior hesitance disregarded and forgotten.

In the bustling excitement of the solstice, with fey and faerie mingling in the surrounding Autumn Court woods and the palace devoid of both Zenith and Quintessence, he enacted my plan. Drawing upon the extensive history and arcane knowledge taught to him throughout his life in the Feywild,he identified a location within the Crimson Autumn woods where a planar rift had materialized. To an untrained eye, it would appear as naught but an ordinary clearing; yet, near the edge of a lake, a subtle distortion—a clouded, warped shimmer of possibility—betrayed the presence of a portal. With cautious determination, Morrison extended his arm into the distorted haze. Satisfied that it was safe, he fully entered the planar tear, and in an instant, the familiar climate of the Feywild was replaced by a brisk, unfamiliar chill.

He emerged into a forest grove utterly unlike the one he left behind. The vibrant autumn hues of red and yellow were absent, supplanted by the stark barrenness of winter—bare, thin trees shivering in the icy wind. An echoing, hollow sound reverberated through the woods, as if whispered voices formed a spectral tunnel around him. Luckily, the young fey had prepared for harsher weather; the Material Plane now lay in the grip of a frigid winter—a hiemal cold wholly foreign to his senses. The dense forests of the Autumn Court may experience a subtle crisp chill from time to time, but nowhere near this plummeting temperature had been seen in his home court in many centuries. He knew he had arrived, for the Autumn Court could never be so desolate, nor would even the Winter Court appear so stripped of magic. Here, the air itself seems void of the potent enchantment that once pulsed through the Feywild. He stood, then, in the Material Plane—the realm of mortals and the mundane—free from the oppressive tyranny of his past, even if this world is unkind and unsuited to his nature.

Yet he remained steadfast in his decision, without a trace of regret. For a realm not crafted for him is still preferable to one that had offered nothing but scorn. Perhaps, these unfamiliar lands will yet show more love than that which bleeds with apathy.