A Fey for Valentines Day

Written in Gold

I make my way through the gallery slowly, studying each portrait as I pass. The faces blur together after a while, so many strangers, so many stories, so many endings I'll never know. But I force myself to keep looking. Keep searching for an answer.

There has to be something here. Some pattern. Some secret that could help me.

The "Chosen" portraits are easier to spot now that I know what I am looking at. Their expressions are different — peaceful, content, sometimes even joyful. The "Unchosen" wear their fear like a second mask, frozen forever in their final moments of desperation.

I pause in front of a young man in Georgian dress, his powdered wig slightly askew, his smile genuine beneath an elaborate mask of silver leaves. Thomas of Philadelphia, 1776, chosen. He looked like someone who would tell good jokes at parties, someone who knew how to smile and make people laugh.

I wonder who he chose. I wonder if they were happy.

Moving on, I scan more faces, more names, more dates. The gallery seems to go on forever, curving around and around like the inside of a nautilus shell. How long have I been here? Minutes? Hours? How much time do I have left?

And then I see it.

At first, I'm not sure what catches my eye. Just a flicker of something different — a break in the pattern I've been studying. I stop, backtrack, and look again.

This portrait is larger than the others, hung in a place of prominence where two sections of the curved wall meet. The frame is more ornate, gilded with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. And the painting itself...

There are three figures there.

Every other portrait in this gallery shows a single unchosen or a chosen and their shadowy partner. But this one shows three: a woman in a deep purple gown, flanked by two men. One golden-haired and radiant. One dark-haired and ominous.

My heart stutters.

The woman stands between them, her hands clasped in each of theirs. She's not choosing. She's not torn. She's holding on to both of them, and all three are smiling. Not the stiff, formal smiles of a portrait sitting. No, these are real smiles. Happiness reflecting all the way to their eyes.

I step closer, searching for the brass plaque.

Isabelle of Provence, 1324, chosen.

Chosen. She won. But she didn't choose one of them — she had clearly chosen them both. How is that possible? The rules-

I lean in, examining the frame more closely. The gilded roses catch the light, gleaming softly, and that's when I notice it. Small letters etched into the gold at the bottom of the frame, so delicate they're almost invisible.

Two hearts, one choice.

I read it again. And agan. The words don't make sense. Two hearts, one choice. How can you choose two hearts with one choice? Unless...

Unless the choice isn't between them.

My pulse quickens. I look back at Isabelle's face, at her serene expression, at the way she holds both princes like they belong to her equally. She didn't choose one over the other. She chose both.

If there's one... maybe there are others... maybe... just maybe there is a chance to save us all.

I move deeper into the gallery, past the endless rows of single portraits, searching for anything else that breaks the pattern. The curved walls seem to tighten around me as I go, the space narrowing, the light growing dimmer. I'm approaching the center of something. The heart of this place.

And then I see exactly what I'm looking for. I find it. I find her.

This portrait dominates the innermost wall of the gallery, larger than all the others, hung in a frame of black iron wrapped with golden thorns. The woman in the painting is breathtakingly beautiful-silver hair cascading over bare shoulders, silver eyes that seem to follow me even from the canvas, lips curved in a smile that promises nothing good.

The Sorceress.

She's younger here than she appeared in the ballroom — or maybe not younger, just different. More human, somehow. Less ancient. But those eyes are the same. That cruel amusement. That predatory patience.

Wearing a gown of deep red, the color of blood, and in her hand she holds a single black rose. Behind her, barely visible in the shadows of the painting, I can make out the suggestion of a ballroom. Dancing figures. A massive clock.

This is her. The architect of all this suffering. The collector of all these broken hearts.

I want to look away. I want ot run. But something tells me it's important to see this, that there's something here that is important. Something holds me in place and won't let me turn away — a glint of gold beneath the frame, catching the light.

Letters. More letters, etched in gold just like the ones on Isabelle's portrait. But these form something long. A verse.

I crouch down, my gown pooling around me on the cold stone floor, and I read.

One heart divided serves my throne,

A choice made half leaves love alone.

To choose is to server, and division feeds my power-

Yet love that refuses to break may yet survive the darkest hour.

One heart, two souls, a bond unbroken:

Choose both, and I will fail.

This is the truth that must not be spoken.

I read it again. And again. The words sink in slowly, their meaning unfurling like a flower blooming in darkness. Choose both, and I fail.

This isn't about finding true love. It's about division and power. About forcing a choice that tears hearts apart. One or the other. Light or shadow. Sun or storm. The very act of choosing feeds her power, because choosing means rejecting the other. It means breaking a heart that could have been whole.

But Isabelle didn't break. She chose both.

This is the truth that must not be spoken.

She hid it here, in plain sight, beneath her own portrait. The one place no one would think to look. The one place she thought no one would find it. The one secret that could destroy the game, etched in gold for anyone clever enough to find it.

I press my hand against the cold stone floor, steadying myself. My mind racing, pieces clicking together faster than I can track them.

The game is rigged, but not the way I thought. It's not rigged for one brother to win over the other — it's rigged so that choosing itself becomes the weapon. Every mortal who's stood in this ballroom has been presented with an impossible choice. And every time they'd fed the Sorceress's power.

But what if you refuse to choose? What if you fall in love with both?

Alaric and Kael. Light and shadow. Two halves of something that was never meant to be divided. Someone close to them must have known about this game — must have taught them, warned them. Whoever it was must have understood that the Sorceress wants them at war with each other. That their conflict is part of what feeds her.

I think about everything I've seen, everything I've learned tonight. Kael's bitterness. Alaric's guilt. Two brothers who love each other but have been poisoned against each other for two hundred years. Two princes who've been told their whole lives that they're opposites, that one must win and one must lose, that there isn't room it the world for both of them.

What if that's the lie?

What if the truth is that they need each other? That I need both of them, as much as the need me?

I rise slowly to my feet, my legs unsteady, my heart pounding in my chest. I don't have all the answers yet. I don't know how to make this work, how to choose both when the whole game is designed to force me to tear apart. But I know one thing now that I didn't know before.

There's a way out. A real way out.

I turn away from her portrait, from those silver eyes that seem to mock me even now, and that's when I see them.

Three portraits, hung on the adjacent wall. Smaller than the Sorceress's, but still prominent. Still important.

The first shows a man and a woman standing together. He's tall, dark-haired, with features I recognize — those sharp cheekbones, that aristocratic jaw. She's luminous, golden-haired, with a warmth that seems to radiate even from the canvas. They're holding hands, and despite the formality of the pose, there's genuine love in their eyes.

The second portrait shows the same dark-haired man, older now, harder. The warmth is gone from his eyes, replaced by something cold and bitter. And standing on either side of him... Two little boys. One golden-haired. The other dark-haired. Both young, maybe eight or nine, both wearing expressions far too serious for their age.

My breath catches in my throat. I step closer. I'd recognize those eyes anywhere.

Alaric and Kael.