The Sleepless King and the Nightlark

FAELAN'S POV I kept watch from the highest tower of my palace, the night wind tugging at my cloak as I checked the contents of my satchel once more. A golden lasso, humming faintly with magic. A silver dagger, its edge catching the moonlight. A vial of dark tonic. And finally, the pocket watch I drew from my trouser pocket, its ticking soft but steady—mocking me with its mortal rhythm. Just a little longer now. Soon, the palace would sleep. Most of them, at least. Everyone sleeps eventually. Everyone but me. I haven’t closed my eyes in five decades. Half a century without rest—because I am cursed with sleeplessness. By my own stepbrother, of all people. A punishment. A revenge for a careless mistake I made in our younger, more ignorant days. I will make him pay for that. One day. But not tonight. Tonight, I am chasing a different ghost. My healers kept me alive long after I should’ve broken. The best minds in every realm: alchemists, sorcerers, physicians. All sworn to keep their sleepless king standing. Elixirs for strength. Tonics to quiet the nerves. Spells to trick the body into believing it had rested. Poultices to clear the fog from my mind. And for a time, it worked. But nothing can replace real sleep. Not for long. The years slipped by until I lost track of them. The treatments dulled the edge of exhaustion, but the mind always remembers what it’s missing. My mind grew foggy sometimes. Patience wore thin. I found myself lashing out, often without knowing why. I was aware of the whispers—how the great King Faelan Vellisar was losing his grip; how sometimes I spoke to shadows; how I ruled by instinct now, not reason. And maybe they’re right. But if word spreads—if other kingdoms sense weakness—they’ll come for Lysarra. They’ll come for me. I can’t let that happen. It was Ser Thamiel, my head of healers, who first spoke of it. The bird of Heartwild. A creature of legend, said to haunt the forest by night. Its song, they claimed, could lull even the gods to sleep. The Nightlark. At the time, I dismissed it as folklore. A tale told to keep fools and poachers from wandering too deep into the woods. I’d heard enough of those in my lifetime to know how stories grow teeth. But lately… I’ve begun to wonder. Ser Thamiel’s voice still echoes in my mind—measured, cautious. His eyes kept flicking toward me, as though fearing I’d take offense at his words. He spoke of the creature as though it were real—as though he’d seen it with his own eyes. And perhaps he had. In this world, stranger things have survived the ages. I am desperate now. Desperation makes a man heed what he once mocked. If there is even the faintest chance this creature exists—if its song could grant me a single moment of true sleep—I would seize it. No matter the cost. What do I have left to lose? My reputation? My dignity? Perhaps. Which is precisely why no one will know. Not Ser Thamiel. Not the court. No one. I checked my pocket watch once more. Midnight had come, and with it, the moment I had waited for. I shifted—bones reshaping, feathers sprouting, wings unfurling—into the quiet night. An owl now, I slipped from the tower, gliding silently toward Heartwild, the forest that lay between my kingdom, Lysarra, and Fennora, my stepbrother Mordain’s domain. The trees whispered beneath me, alive and ancient, as if the forest itself were watching. Perched on a high branch, I let my senses stretch—ears straining, eyes scanning. I drifted from tree to tree for hours. Yet no glimpse of the creature… no whisper of its song. Hope began to falter. And then I saw it. The Nightlark. A creature of impossible beauty—white and pale blue like moonlight, tail feathers fanning like a peacock’s, a crown-like crest resting atop its head. Even in my desperate hunt, I could not tear my eyes away. I shifted back into my true form, limbs finding purchase on the branch. My fingers brushed the golden lasso in my satchel. Then the bird sang. The sound was fluid, like a whispering stream slipping through my mind, coiling tight around my soul. My body trembled; the drowsiness clawed its way in, eager to claim me. The tales were true. But I couldn’t celebrate. Not yet. I had work to do—or I’d fall from this very tree. I bit down hard, drove the silver dagger into my arm, and poured the dark potion over the wound. It burned like fire—enough to keep me awake. All the while, my gaze never wavered from the Nightlark. When the lasso left my hand, it writhed as if possessed, twisting and clawing at the air. The creature thrashed and cried out, but it was no match for the magic woven into the chain. Once it was locked, nothing could break free. And in that moment, the forest seemed to still, as if the world itself held its breath. The Nightlark was mine. I was its master. I wasted no time. The Nightlark, still bound by the lasso, traveled with me through the night—wings folded, claws gripping my hand as I shifted from form to form, weaving glamour around the bird to keep it hidden. No one stirred in the palace. Guards and servants I passed gave no more than a glance—no one questioned a sleepless king wandering the corridors past midnight. I slipped through shadowed halls straight to my chambers, the Nightlark my only companion. I placed it carefully in the cage I had prepared near my bed. Its plumage shimmered faintly in the moonlight—soft, impossible, otherworldly. I stared, enthralled by its beauty. Its eyes met mine, deep and sorrowful, as if piercing straight into my soul. I could have sworn a single tear glistened there. “I am your captor,” I murmured, voice low, reverent. “You will do my bidding.” I climbed onto the bed, drawing the covers around me, the cage just within reach. “Sing, pretty bird,” I commanded, unable to hide the thrill in my voice at the sound it would make. It did not need repeating. The Nightlark’s song poured into the room—rich, liquid, curling around me, filling every hollow space I had carried for fifty long years. I wanted to stay with the music, to lose myself in its beauty. But my eyelids grew heavy. And then, at last, for the first time in half a century… sleep claimed me. Morning cut through the curtains like a blade. I woke with a clarity I had not known in centuries. My body thrummed with light, renewed energy, and my mind—oh, my mind—finally razor-sharp. The Nightlark’s song had done its work. Dreamless, deep sleep. I was ready to reward my precious bird for accomplishing what my finest healers could not. But when my eyes swung to the cage, it was crushed. The bird was gone. My stomach twisted. Had it escaped? Been stolen in the night? Panic and rage clawed at me, ready to tear the kingdom apart in search of my prize. Then something caught the edge of my vision. A woman. She wore the tunic I had discarded last night, slipping toward the door with quiet, desperate haste. Instinct overrode thought. My hand shot to the golden lasso. It sang through the air, wrapping around her ankle like a living serpent, yanking her down with a soft whimper. She stumbled across the floor, dragged toward my bed. I was on her before she could regain her footing, fingers tightening at her throat. “Who are you?” I demanded, voice low, lethal. “What are you doing in my chambers?”