A/N: In the image is King Oberyn and the Queen Lysara of the Verdant Star Court
The first sign that something ancient had crossed into Silverthorne lands was not light or sound—but stillness.
The wind through the high garden paused mid-breath. The silver-leafed trees that usually whispered to one another fell silent, their branches frozen as though listening. Even the dragons—Veridia and Erevan alike—stilled in their distant perches, instincts humming with alert respect rather than alarm.
Mavis felt it at once.
She was eight years old, barefoot in the garden with soil smudged on her fingers, crouched beside a half-finished ring of moonflowers she'd been coaxing into bloom. Sakari lay nearby in a lazy sprawl, pastel tail flicking—until she snapped upright, ears forward.
Mavis placed her hand over her chest.
"Someone's here," she murmured.
Not a threat.
A presence.
The air ahead of her shimmered—not violently, not dramatically, but like heat over stone. The garden path of pale quartz and moss brightened, runes along its edges glowing faintly in welcome rather than warding.
And then the veil thinned.
They stepped through as if emerging from a dream.
There were thirty of them—no more, no less—and every one of them bore the weight of something old, wounded, and unbroken.
At their head walked a tall Fae man with skin like warm bronze kissed by moonlight, his long hair bound in braids threaded with silver bark. Antlers rose from his brow—not the sharp, warlike kind, but branching and elegant, etched with living runes. His eyes were molten amber, steady and watchful.
Beside him stood a Fae queen, luminous and fierce despite the sorrow she carried. Her hair flowed like a cascade of starlit ivy, dark green threaded with frost-white blossoms. Gossamer wings folded behind her, veined with gold, though one bore a faint tear long since healed. Her eyes—clear, piercing silver—rested on Mavis with startling intensity.
Behind them came children—Fae children—some no older than Mavis herself. They clutched hands, wings tucked close, expressions wary but curious. Elders followed, fewer in number, their forms bearing scars both visible and unseen.
They were not an army.
They were a survivors' court.
Sakari rose and padded protectively to Mavis's side, fur bristling—not in aggression, but readiness.
Mavis stood.
She did not reach for a wand.
She did not call for her parents.
She simply lifted her chin and said, very clearly, "Hello."
The antlered Fae king inclined his head.
"I am King Oberyn of the Verdant Star Court," he said, his voice like leaves stirring after rain. "And this is Queen Lysara, my heart and my crown."
Lysara stepped forward, lowering herself—not kneeling, but bowing in a way that acknowledged Mavis as something other than mortal child.
"Mavis Potter-Silverthorne," the queen said softly. "We hoped you would be here."
Mavis blinked. "You know my name?"
Oberyn smiled—not broadly, but with deep relief. "Your land remembers you. The wards sang when we approached. That is... rare."
Mavis glanced around her garden—the silver trees, the luminous flowers, the gentle slope where creatures liked to nap. "You can come closer," she said. "The garden won't bite."
That earned a ripple of startled laughter from the fae children.
Slowly, cautiously, the Verdant Star Court stepped fully into the garden.
The moment they did, the land responded.
Roots shifted beneath the soil, making space. Moonflowers turned their faces toward the newcomers. Fireflies gathered in spirals of pale green light. The air warmed, as if recognizing kin long absent.
Queen Lysara inhaled sharply, eyes shining. "It lives," she whispered.
"It remembers," Oberyn agreed.
Mavis frowned slightly. "Remembers what?"
Oberyn looked at her then—not as a king addressing a child, but as one ancient being acknowledging another with quiet gravity.
"Our home," he said.
The garden seemed to sigh.
They gathered beneath the great silver ash at the garden's heart, its leaves chiming softly overhead. Mavis sat cross-legged on the grass, Sakari curled against her knee, while the Fae court formed a loose semicircle around her.
Lysara spoke first.
"Our court once thrived where ley lines braided thick as roots," she said. "A place of bloom and song. But poachers found us. Not the foolish kind—these were hunters who knew what Fae blood could buy."
Her voice did not shake, but the air around her grew colder, "They burned our groves. Shattered our heartstone. Slaughtered those who could not flee."
The Fae children huddled closer to one another.
Oberyn continued, voice heavy. "We saved who we could. Thirty souls. That is all that remains of a court that once numbered in the thousands."
Mavis swallowed. Her hands curled into the grass.
"That's not fair," she said quietly.
Lysara smiled at her—not gently, but with fierce gratitude. "No. It was not."
"We have wandered since," Oberyn said. "Hidden in dwindling places. Always chased. Always unwelcome. Until... we felt you."
Mavis looked up. "Me?"
"You," Lysara confirmed. "A child bound to magic not by conquest, but by choice. One who shelters what others fear. One whose land opens rather than closes."
The garden brightened subtly, as if agreeing.
"We sought permission," Oberyn said carefully. "Not conquest. Not refuge taken by force. We would not survive that again."
Mavis's heart thudded.
She looked around at the Fae children—one with petal-like ears, another whose wings shimmered like dew. She saw elders leaning on staffs grown from living branches, eyes tired but hopeful.
Then she looked at her garden.
At the space.
At the quiet promise of it.
"You can live here," she said.
The words were simple.
The effect was not.
The garden surged with magic—not wild, but welcoming. Soil softened, reshaping itself. A gentle rise formed near the old willow, glowing with emerald light. Vines traced elegant arches through the air, weaving themselves into living homes. Mushrooms sprouted in luminous rings. Water trickled where none had been before, forming a clear stream that sang softly.
The Fae gasped.
Lysara staggered, hand flying to her mouth. "You would offer us root?"
Mavis nodded. "The garden likes making friends."
Oberyn knelt then—fully, unmistakably.
"Then we offer you bond," he said solemnly. "Not servitude. Not fealty in chains. A living accord. We will tend this land as if it were our heart. We will teach what we remember. We will guard what you love."
The Fae court followed suit—elders bowing, children placing small glowing tokens at Mavis's feet: seeds, petals, fragments of song.
Mavis stood quickly. "You don't have to kneel!"
Lysara rose gracefully, eyes bright with tears. "We kneel not to your age," she said. "But to your choice."
She extended her hand. "Will you accept the Verdant Star Court as kin of Silverthorne?"
Mavis hesitated only a heartbeat.
Then she took Lysara's hand.
The bond sealed like spring breaking through frost.
Magic rippled outward—gentle, verdant, enduring. The garden gained a new pulse, deeper and richer. The Fae children laughed as wings unfurled more brightly. Elders straightened, weariness easing from their shoulders.
Somewhere far within the manor, wards adjusted—not in defense, but in welcome.
When Alaric, Elarisse and Sirius arrived moments later, alerted by the shift in magic, they stopped at the garden's edge and simply stared.
Thirty Fae stood among living homes that had not existed an hour before.
And at their center stood Mavis—smiling, barefoot, dirt on her hands—holding court beneath a silver tree that had never looked more alive.
Alaric exhaled slowly. "Well."
Elarisse smiled, green eyes soft. "She's done it again."
"It had to be a Fae Court this time." Sirius commented.
Mavis looked over her shoulder, beaming. "Mum! Dad! We have guests!"
Guests.
Family.
And for the Verdant Star Court, at last—
A home.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnsafsZH9QV
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