The fairy who Dances with Shadows

The Crystal Trials- Vermior

Vermior’s POV

The last week had been the most complex of my life.

First, I was forced to Vaeluna by my father’s command to throw my hat in for the hand of a princess I’d never met. My entire life had been dictated by duty—as the Dragon Prince, I had to prove my strength, leadership, and wisdom, often buried in books I had no interest in reading. The only peace I ever found was on the training grounds, surrounded by comrades who saw me as a soldier, not a crown.

When I refused to marry the bride of my father’s choosing, I came up with a plan: make myself entirely undesirable. So at the ball, I showed up in full battle armor instead of the elegant outfit arranged for me. I was glad I was terrible at dancing—my stiff movements in that heavy armor were as graceful as a hippo. The poor princess I was paired with looked equally disinterested, fluttering off the ground to avoid my clunky footwork.

While I stumbled through the dance, I noticed a fairy across the room red-faced with laughter, eyes gleaming with mischief. Her amusement made me chuckle despite myself.

When the princess eventually floated away—clearly relieved—I was content. That night, I saw her choose a vampire instead: graceful, elegant, magnetic. Noctis, I later learned. I smiled. He was clearly the one she wanted, and I was relieved. I wanted that kind of love too—one I chose for myself.

Overheated in the armor, I stepped outside for air. My ring glowed—my attendants had ratted on me. My father’s voice thundered through the crystal communicator, chastising my behavior. I lied, saying my formalwear had been ruined in transport. He simmered but relented. I shed the top half of my armor, savoring the breeze.

Noctis joined me on the balcony. I congratulated him, and he amused me by staining the clothes of some pompous fairy lord who had insulted the non-fae candidates. Later, when one of those same pompous fairies tried to ambush Noctis, I drew my sword and blocked the blow with ease. My dragon strength stunned the crowd.

But the mischievous fairy from before? She looked thrilled. Awestruck. I winked at her. A different candidate named Sage apprehended the attacker, and the drama subsided.

That night, the same fairy—the one who had laughed at my dancing—offered me a tour of the gardens in gratitude. I asked for a moment to change. She teased me: “But I thought you liked the armor.”

I chuckled. “No, I just didn’t want to be chosen.”

She said she’d wait.

When I returned in comfortable clothes, we walked the garden paths. I learned her name—Princess Myrelle. The second-born of the Queen. Fierce and free.

We laughed like old friends. She challenged me to an arm-wrestling match, and I was shocked by her strength. Her grip rivaled that of any warrior in my legion. She told me about her father—the late fae prince consort—who died defending the realms from the vampire king's invasion.

She took me to his mausoleum, her sanctuary when visions troubled her. She had the gift of foresight, able to see everyone’s future but her own. There, among the vines and carved stone, I saw not a princess—but a woman of substance, fire, and grace.

From that moment, I no longer wanted disqualification. I wanted to stay. I wanted her.

And so I tried. I behaved. I endured.

And then came the dragon child—cursed and changed in the forest. My temper nearly got the better of me. But Sage’s calm and Noctis’s strategy grounded me. Myrelle’s gentle strength saved me.

She steadied me in council meetings. Laughed at my jokes. Saw through my posturing. She became my anchor.

So when the Queen announced the final trial—each princess hidden in the place where she felt most at peace—I panicked. What if I failed to find her?

Then I remembered. Her favorite place.

The mausoleum.

I raced there—and found her, floating inside a suspended crystal pod above her father’s grave.

A Hexcrystal.

For once, I was glad my tutors had drilled the lessons into me. I knew what a Hexcrystal was—and the danger it posed. It pulsed like a heartbeat, casting Myrelle’s face in pale light. I could feel it siphoning her mana. If I left her there much longer, I might lose her.

I partially transformed—my wings unfurling as I glided toward the suspended crystal. When I reached out, it zapped me.

A whisper echoed in my mind:

“Prove your worth or be cursed.”

Then a stone pedestal rose beneath the Hexcrystal, revealing a rusted sword lodged deep within. A plaque beneath it read:

Rust and ruin veil my face.

Trust and love reveal my place.

From shadowed grip to heart of flame,

Endure my wrath and speak my name.

Draw me forth with strength unfeigned,

Or be hexed, and thus profaned.”

I stared at the rusted sword in stunned disbelief. I knew the Hexcrystal was feeding on Myrelle’s mana. This was the only way to free her—and claim her.

I gripped the hilt with both hands.

Lightning exploded across my arms—white-hot agony lanced through me. I gritted my teeth, lungs dragging in air, heart hammering against my ribs. The sword vibrated violently, fighting my grasp like a living thing.

Every second I held it, the energy built—crimson arcs snapped between my fingers and the stone. My vision blurred. The Hexcrystal hissed, whispering in ancient tongues. I couldn’t let go. If I failed, the curse would fall on me—and she would remain trapped.

I planted my boots, braced my shoulders, and pulled.

The sword resisted. Lightning crawled through me, veins searing with liquid fire. The hilt burned like a sun. Pain devoured me.

“Not… letting… go,” I snarled, dragging the blade up inch by inch. I summoned every ounce of strength, endurance, and will—not for myself, but for her.

Rust cracked and flaked away, turning to sparks. The sword beneath gleamed—blacksteel streaked with molten gold. At its base, a sigil glowed: the mark of the old king.

With a final roar, I wrenched it free.

Thunder rocked the chamber. The Hexcrystal shattered in a burst of red light. Myrelle drifted downward—into my arms.

The sword thrummed in my grip. Her father’s sigil faded, replaced by a new one: a dragon, its eyes glowing the same green as hers when visions overtook her.

For a moment, the chamber was silent. The curse evaporated, leaving only the scent of ozone and molten stone.

I staggered—but the sword held me upright, even as I cradled Myrelle close.

“You’re safe now,” I whispered, voice hoarse but sure.

I hoped the other two trials weren’t nearly as grueling as mine. I wasn’t sure either of them could have physically endured what I just had. I wanted to put the sword away, but I had no sheath. As if understanding my thoughts, the blade shimmered—glowing softly—before it shifted form, coiling into a necklace that clasped around my neck like a living flame.

With both arms, I held Myrelle closer. She was light, her body weakened from the Hexcrystal’s drain, her breathing shallow but steady. I glanced down at her peaceful face and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

*Note to self: I need a ring to propose with. *

I adjusted my grip on Myrelle and stepped carefully through the quiet halls of the mausoleum. Her warmth against me steadied my still-trembling limbs. Around my neck, the sword-turned-necklace pulsed softly, a living promise. I didn’t know what lay ahead for the others, but I knew this—no trial, no war, no curse could keep me from her again. Myrelle was mine to protect now, and I would forge my own future—with her beside me, not as the Dragon Prince, but as a man who had finally chosen his path.