How Seasons Pass

Love is a heavy journey, littered with sacrifice, tainted by betrayal, yet it bears a fragile innocence—one that even forgiveness can turn into faded scars.

Far beyond the reach of time, a child’s first breath was not a cry, but a lullaby that soothed even the divine themselves. But when she was born, the music left his throat, drifting like wind-blown embers into her little lungs. From that day on the Baron could no longer sing the world into motion, but he did not curse his daughter for taking his gift, no, he cherished her all the more.

He raised her with care, teaching her the weight of her power, and she loved him dearly. But fate does not stand still and as Milia grew into her song, their paths began to diverge.

One evening, as the wind carried the scent of frost-kissed leaves, a tiny ladybug landed upon the fae’s shoulder.

“Little singer,” the ladybug whispered, though its voice rumbled like the sky before a storm, “The world needs its seasons, and they are yours to give. Will you take up the mantle and become its champion?”

With resounding agreement and so, with her father’s blessings too, she left the glade of her childhood, stepping into the world of the Season’s Song. When she sang of spring, the flowers stretched towards her voice. When she hummed summer’s tune, the Sun burned golden in the sky. Autumn’s melody brought crisp winds and swirling leaves, and winter’s lullaby hushed the world in frost.

Even one of her status has a heart, and Milia’s belonged to one.

Blis was a hard working fairy, respectful, heeding the Green Baron’s daughter, for he wished not to test his wrath. Yet with eyes like storm-touched sea glass that bellowed in her beauty, his heart strayed from the path of duty. He loved Milia, though he knew he should not, for his oath was to her father first and to himself last. And she—she loved him in return.

They never spoke of it, never dared to let the words escape, for love was a thing of tangled roots and sharp thorns, and duty was a path of stone. But hearts are foolish things. In the quiet hush of autumn’s first chill, they broke their silent vows, whispering love beneath the veil of a cave.

The winds carried their secret, and the Green Baron heard.

“You have failed your place,” the Baron said, his voice frigid, coarse. “And so, you shall have another.”

 Blis did not scream, nor beg. He only looked once at Milia, his light flickering as if in farewell, before the wind carried him to the heavens.

Milia wept.

She did not blame her father, nor curse the world. She knew Blis had chosen his fate the moment he chose her. But love and loss are the twin hands of grief, and her sorrow settled in her throat.

And when she sang the song of winter, the world froze.
Her weeping brought longer frost, her aching heart stretching the cold months further than ever before. The people of the world whispered of the endless winter, of the snow that lingered even when the crocuses should have risen.

The ladybug came to her once more, landing upon her trembling hand. “You are my Champion, little singer. The world must turn.”

Milia wiped her tears, though the wound remained. She took a breath and, with all the sorrow in her heart, she sang once more—this time, not only of winter, but of the spring that would follow.
And so, the seasons turned again.
Yet, even now, when she raises her voice to the sky, the green flame flickers above, forever watching, forever burning, a beacon for the Green Baron… and a love that once was.

And so she sings. And the world turns. Winter always comes.