The Scent of Longing

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hi everyone! Minko here.

I'm so thankful for having this opportunity and for you to come by and give this novel a chance. I hope you enjoy those nine free chapters and hopefully fall in love with the characters and their relationship as much as I did! ♡

I just wanted to give you a little heads-up. The first two chapters of the novel have a complpetely different tone. I decided to use them to properly set the rules of the world I created, so I could give this story some context. Even if I believe this is important and gives us a good insight on Nell's background, the tone is more formal than the rest of the novel, when the story moves to Swarthmore, the main setting of the story, and where our love story begins.

So, just bare with me! Or if you please, start the novel in chapter 3, and come back to chapters 1 and 2 when you want to have a better insight on Nell's background or the world structures! Choice is yours!

Nothing left to say but... ENJOY THE READING!

Fae kisses ♡

Shikabana Minko xx

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Nell’s POV

Sunlight spills through the gauzy curtains, painting the tangled sheets in gold. I wake with the weight of two bodies pressed close—one draped across my chest, the other curled at my side. Their limbs are long and elegant, skin shimmering faintly in the morning light, hair trailing like silk across my stomach.

The room smells of honeysuckle and something sweeter still, the afterglow of fae magic and pleasure lingering in the air.

I untangle myself gently, careful not to wake them. The man murmurs, shifting, his hand sliding possessively over my hip. The woman sighs, her lips brushing my shoulder.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to stay—let them pull me back into the warmth, the softness, the illusion of belonging. But the emptiness inside me is as familiar as my own name, and not even their beauty, their devotion, can fill it.

Gods, I could drown in silk and skin for a century and still feel nothing but cold.

I slip from the bed and cross to the window, pushing aside the curtain. Verdance unfurls before me, a city of living towers and flowering bridges, sunlight glinting off emerald roofs and crystalline streams.

My demesne, Aetherlyn, is awake and vibrant, the air thick with the scent of blooming wisteria and the distant laughter of children chasing each other through the mossy courtyards.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, the wild heart of Lyssandra, Kingdom of the Spring, beats—opulent, seductive, alive in ways I have only ever observed from a distance.

Tomorrow, I will say goodbye to all of it. For a year, at least. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

Father—King Ulrian Darragh Lotusgrace, sovereign of Aetherlyn—has been named one of the seven candidates for the next King of Spring. The High Council will spend five years in careful observation and assessment before they choose who will ascend to rule Lyssandra, the heart of the Spring Court. Until then, nothing in our lives can be left to chance.

As the only true heir to the Lotusgrace crown, I must be ready to take my father’s place here in Verdance should he be called away to Aethelgard, capital of Lyssandra, to take his place as the King of Spring.

I am young—far younger than anyone expects a prince to be when he steps up to claim a throne, barely over a century old. I must prove myself worthy, not just of the Emerald Throne, but of the trust of my people.

And so, my path leads me far from home. I am to leave Sylvangard, the Realm of the Fae, and cross into Earth—the Mortal Realm—for a year.

I will walk amongst humans, hidden by glamour, living as one of them. My charge is to learn their ways, to forge potential alliances for Aetherlyn, to measure threats and rivals, and to master diplomacy on neutral ground.

Earth has always fascinated me. I’ve studied their languages, their histories, their endless, ingenious ways of making meaning out of chaos.

 Yet for all my study, there is so much I do not know. Most humans remain blissfully unaware of the immortals who walk amongst them: fae, lycans, vampires, lych.

Earth is neutral territory, riddled with portals to our world and to Erebrus, the Realm of Shadow. Settlements of fae, lycan, and vampire dot the globe, hidden in plain sight.

Glamour can make me look human, but nothing can fully mask the scent of my kind. No suppressant is strong enough to erase the trace of fae pheromones or shield mortals from their effects.

One slip—a falter in my suppressant, a single brush of skin—and a human will be lost to desire, unable to resist temptation.

Seduction is a weapon we wield as naturally as breath. Our voices, our faces, our bodies—all are designed to beguile. But our pheromones are the most dangerous magic of all.

We are not as strong or swift as the Erebrian folk, but our allure and magic gives us an edge. We can charm nearly any creature, bend them to our will if we wish.

Immortals have some resistance, but mortals are terribly vulnerable. Even if I refuse to wield this power, I cannot prevent mortals from becoming infatuated with me.

It makes my mission—incognito, untouched, unseen for who I truly am—almost impossible.

How will I spend a year hiding my nature? I have no idea. I can only hope that, when the time comes to reveal myself, those I trust will prove allies, not enemies.

Behind me, the sheets rustle, pulling me from my thoughts. “Your Highness,” purrs the woman, her voice velvet and honey, “surely you’re not leaving us so soon?”

The man sits up, his eyes—solid silver, like moonlit water—fixed on me with lazy hunger. “Come back to bed, my Prince. Let us worship you properly this time.”

I almost laugh. They never use my name. No one does, not unless they want to be scolded by the court or worse, by my father. To them, I am always ‘Your Highness,’ ‘My Prince’—never Cornelius. Always the title, never the person.

Heaven forbid anyone in this palace remembers I have a name. Or a pulse.

I look at them—beautiful, eager, so willing to please—and feel nothing but a dull ache of boredom. Not even the two of them, together, could satisfy the hollow space inside me. I wonder, not for the first time, if anything ever will.

Perhaps I should invite a third next time. Or a fourth. Maybe then I’ll feel something. Or maybe I’ll just run out of bedsheets.

My mother, Queen Oonania, is the only soul who has ever seen me, truly seen me, and even her love is a rare and precious thing, guarded fiercely from the world.

The woman pouts, trailing her fingers over the sheets. “You’re cruel, My Prince. Leaving us like this.”

I smile, but it’s a hollow thing. “You’ll survive. Both of you, out. I have to prepare.”

They sigh, exchanging a glance that’s equal parts disappointment and resignation. They gather their clothes—gossamer and dew-spun, like everything in this realm—and slip from the room, leaving behind only the faintest trace of their scent.

A soft knock at the door. “Come in,” I call, smoothing my hair with a careless hand.

The maid enters, bowing low, her wings fluttering nervously. “Your Highness, the King requests your presence in the Golden Dawn atrium.”

“Thank you, Lilliric.” I nod, and she straightens, her eyes never quite meeting mine. She moves to the wardrobe, selecting robes of pale green and gold, embroidered with living vines and tiny blossoms that open as she touches them.

My clothes are as much art as attire—flowy, translucent fabrics layered over my skin, delicate and opulent, a reminder that nothing in this world is ever simple or plain. She weaves a fresh garland of wildflowers through my hair, her hands gentle and practised.

I let her dress me, even though I could do it myself. Sometimes, it’s easier to let others perform these rituals, to play the role expected of me. Prince. Heir. Miracle child. Anything but myself.

When I am ready, I cross the hallways of the Emerald Palace, nodding to guards and servants as I go. The palace is alive with morning energy, but there’s a hush beneath it—a sense of anticipation, of secrets not quite spoken aloud.

The atrium is a high, sunlit room overlooking the eastern gardens. Father stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back. His crown is woven from living branches, heavy with emerald leaves and tiny, luminescent blooms.

He does not turn as I enter, but I feel the weight of his presence settle over me.

“Father.” I bow as I enter, always respectful, always formal, even when it’s just the two of us. The air in the atrium is cool and bright, the scent of wisteria drifting in from the gardens below.

“Cornelius,” he says, voice as crisp as winter air. He stands by the window, his silhouette framed by sunlight, the living crown on his brow casting shifting patterns across the floor. “Come. Look.”

I join him at the window. Below, the city stretches out—Verdance, my home, soon to be my charge if fate turns its wheel. The flowering towers, the bridges draped in moss and bloom, the pulse of life in every corner.

“Do you know why I called you here?” he asks, gaze fixed on the horizon.

I nod, heart steady but heavy. “To review the final arrangements for my journey, I assume.”

He finally looks at me, his eyes sharp but not unkind. “This mission is unlike any you’ve undertaken before. It must be kept utterly secret. On Earth, you will be vulnerable. If word spreads that you are alone and unguarded, there are those who might seize the chance to erase you from the line of succession.”

He doesn’t say it, but I know he fears my half-siblings might discover the truth and try to claim the throne for themselves.

For years, my parents could not conceive, no matter what magic or ritual they tried.

In Sylvangard, lives are long, and lovers are many, but Father needed an heir.

He took concubines, and six children were born before me, all now past their third century. Then, by some miracle—some say a blessing from Viridia—I was born to the queen, the only rightful heir to the Emerald Throne.

I have trained for this all my life, but my siblings have never accepted it. They have always hated me for it.

Father loves us all, but he is not blind to the danger. If any of them, or any enemy of the crown, learns where I am and how exposed, it could be my undoing.

We have taken precautions. To all but my parents, the royal guard, and a handful of trusted advisors, I am said to be leaving for a mission to the borderlands, to fight the unseelie and the darkness from the Voidfen.

He turns from the window, facing me fully. “I assume all your forged documentation is in order and you have everything you need to remain unnoticed there on Earth.”

Everything is ready. I will spend a year as Nell Lotusgrace, a third-year student at Swarthmore College, Pennsylvania, studying history and anthropology—fields chosen to help me understand humans, their alliances, their wars.

It is a tight-knit plan, but still, being surrounded by humans is a little unsettling.

A whole year keeping guarded, not being able to touch a soul.

“Everything is ready, Father. I will not fail you.” I assure him, although I am not as sure as I would like to be.

He studies me, his gaze softer now. “You are ready, Cornelius. You have prepared well. But you must remember—keep your identity hidden, even from those who seem trustworthy. The mortal world is not as forgiving as ours. There are those who would use your true self against you, or worse, against Aetherlyn.”

“I understand.” My voice is steady, but inside, nerves twist and flutter.

He places a hand on my shoulder, firm and grounding. “Remember, you are Cornelius Oleander Lotusgrace, but you are also a son of Sylvangard. Let kindness be your shield and wonder your guide. And should you falter, remember that the forest watches over its own.”

We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of destiny pressing down on both of us. The city outside seems to hold its breath.

He squeezes my shoulder, voice gentle. “I am proud of you, Cornelius. You are more than a title. You are my son. Remember that, even when you are far from home.”

For a moment, I see not the king, but the father. I cling to that as I prepare to say goodbye, hoping the memory will be enough to carry me through whatever comes next.

But for now, I need to continue with today’s duties as if I weren’t about to venture on a life-changing journey.

*****

The training grounds are slick with dew, the air sharp with the scent of grass and steel. Darober, Captain of the Guard, circles me with practised precision, blade raised, eyes narrowed and utterly focused.

Every movement is measured, every feint calculated—he’s a master, centuries old, and yet I know how to push him, how to find the smallest opening.

We clash, swords ringing, each strike and parry a test of skill and will. Darober fights with the relentless discipline that earned him his rank, but I match him, step for step, refusing to yield an inch.

For a time, there is nothing but the rhythm of combat—the slide of foot on stone, the hiss of breath, the bite of steel meeting steel. I press him, relentless, driving him back with a series of feints and flourishes, until I have him pinned against the low stone wall.

My sword is at his throat, close enough that he can feel my breath on his cheek.

He’ll never admit it, but he loves when I win. Or at least definitely loves the view from here.

“Yield,” I murmur, voice low and commanding.

He swallows, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “Your Highness—”

I lean in, letting my lips brush the shell of his ear. “Call me by my name, Darober. Just once.”

He shudders, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat. “C-Cornelius,” he whispers, barely audible.

I smile, slow and wicked, letting my free hand trail down his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath my palm. “Good. You do remember.”

He opens his eyes, longing and defiance warring in his gaze. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re far too obedient for your own good,” I tease, pressing closer until our bodies are flush. For a moment, the world narrows to just us—the heat, the tension, the memory of nights tangled together, limbs and lips and whispered promises that meant nothing in the morning.

Darober’s hand comes up, fingers ghosting over my jaw, hesitant. “Be careful. Humans, they’re… different.”

I smirk, lips hovering over his. “So I’ve heard.”

He exhales shakily. “They’ll want you. All of you. And not just because of…” He gestures at my neck, where the honeysuckle scent clings, thick and sweet.

“Jealous, Darober?” I let my lips graze his, a teasing promise, just shy of a kiss.

He laughs, but it’s breathless, his eyes dark with want. “Bold words for someone who’s never bedded a human.”

“And never will,” I say, my voice a velvet threat. “Lust is a distraction. I’m there to learn, not to fuck.”

Darober laughs, rolling his eyes as he straightens his tunic. “By the love of Anthos, you say that now. But if anyone could make a scholar break his vows, it’d be you, Your Highness.”

I smirk, letting my gaze linger on him, deliberately slow. “Careful, Darober. If you keep flattering me, I might start thinking you miss me already.”

He grins, masking any hint of longing behind a cocky tilt of his head. “Miss you? I’ll just enjoy the peace and quiet for once. Though I suppose the training grounds will be a lot less interesting.”

I let my thumb brush his jaw, the touch lingering just a moment too long. “Try not to get too bored without me.”

He catches my wrist, squeezing gently, eyes bright with mischief. “No promises, My Prince.”

We part with a final, charged glance—his composure restored, my amusement lingering.

This is what I know: how to command, how to tempt, how to leave them wanting more, never quite satisfied.

My life in Verdance has always been lonely.

Born the miracle child, the heir, I have carried responsibilities from the moment I could walk. Nobles my age are always more interested in what I represent than who I am.

Lovers, too, have wanted the throne, not the man.

My vassals, though loyal, have never dared to see me as an equal or a friend. Even the loyal ones, like Darober, who would not hesitate to give his life for me, would never dream of overstepping the boundaries of our positions. Always respectful, always keeping distance.

It sickens me.

I have always craved something I’m not sure I’ll ever find: to be seen, to be loved, for myself—not for my crown.

I steel myself for the rest of the day, longing for the moment when I can finally shed this skin and step into the unknown, where, perhaps, I might finally be seen as myself.

Or maybe I’ll just find a new audience for the same old play. Curtain up, Cornelius.

Nell’s POV

The afternoon fades into evening, and I am summoned to the family dining hall—a smaller, more intimate space than the grand hall, but still opulent in its own way.

The table is set with crystal and gold, the air perfumed with jasmine and wild rose. Every detail is perfect, every surface gleaming, but the atmosphere is brittle as spun glass.

My mother sits at one end, radiant in a gown of living lilies. My father is beside her, his presence commanding but softened by the way he looks at her—tender, protective, a rare glimpse of the man behind the crown.

The king’s three concubines are present, seated with perfect poise, their smiles polite but cool. They offer the expected words of farewell, but their voices are clipped, their eyes never quite meeting mine.

I have taken the possibility of the throne from their children, and I can feel the old resentment simmering beneath their measured words.

My siblings are array