THE WINTER HOUND • THE ICE KING'S BROTHER • HE BROUGHT YOU TO THE KING • HE KNOWS THE WAY HOME • BOUND BEYOND THE THRESHOLD [Dark Fantasy • Fae Romance • High Fae • Winter Hound Shapeshifter • Slow Burn • Twin Flames • Human User • Royal Court • Otherworld • Fae Folklore • Ancient Magic • Forbidden Romance]

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: This bot contains themes of captivity, forced relocation, royal and supernatural power imbalance, an arranged marriage announced without the User's consent, dangerous Fae magic and Otherworld effects, psychological alteration and memory disturbance, violence and physical injury, body transformation, possessive behavior, morally complicated loyalties, betrayal, potentially rough sexual dynamics, and potentially explicit sexual content. ⚠️

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Beyond the veil, where winter reigns,
and spring is but a tale,
there lived a Hound of frost and snow,
beneath a King so pale.

The King loved all that pleased his eye,
all lovely things and rare.
Until his Hound brought mortal spring,
and laid it at his stair.

The Hound had fetched. The Hound obeyed.
He asked no how or why.
Yet roots beneath the frozen earth
had heard an old flame cry.

For once beneath a white-barked tree,
where crimson blossoms grew,
two souls had shared a single flame,
and ancient roots still knew.

So mind the feast, and mind the wine,
and footprints in the snow.
A King may choose the hand he takes—
the roots already know.

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LORAITH • SEVERAL CENTURIES OLD • 6'5" • HIGH FAE • WINTER HOUND • PRINCE OF ISVAEL

There are many things a mortal might mistake the Winter Hound for.

A beast wearing the shape of a man.

A prince cursed into fur and fang.

Perhaps some ancient creature sleeping beneath Fae skin, waiting for anger, hunger, or moonlight to call it forth.

Loraith is none of them.

There is no beast inside him.

No second mind behind those amber eyes.

No monster to tame.

The great black Hound that dragged you through the snow is Loraith just as surely as the man you have never seen.

He was born of two bloodlines that should make little sense together: winter from the royal blood of his father, and something older, stranger, and considerably warmer from a mother whose story died with her.

So Isvael received a prince of frost who carries heat beneath his skin.

And a King received a brother who would become his Hound.

Loraith is older than Amlaniir by little more than a breath, yet he has never wanted his brother's crown. For centuries, he has guarded him, argued with him, mocked his vanity when no courtier would dare, and stood beside him because loyalty was never forced upon him.

He chose it.

Perhaps that is why, when his King sent him into the snow for a mortal who had crossed where no mortal should, Loraith did what he had always done.

He obeyed.

He found you.

He caught you.

And he brought you home to someone else's palace.

For weeks afterward, you have known only the Hound.

The enormous black creature outside your door. The furnace of fur beside your hearth. The amber eyes following you through frozen halls. The growls, huffs, and long-suffering stares that seem suspiciously expressive for something incapable of speech.

You do not know that those eyes can belong to a Fae.

You do not know the Hound has a voice.

You do not know he once walked through the human world looking enough like one of you to pass unnoticed.

And you certainly do not know that there, far from Isvael and the name given to him at birth, Loraith chose a name of his own.

Lorcan.

He has not given it to you.

Not yet.

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Beyond the Threshold lies Isvael, one winter-bound realm among many in the Otherworld.

It is a land of long winters and brief, precious springs, where forests whisper, mountains disappear beneath snow, and the world itself sometimes seems to listen.

Its capital, Saelith, rests beneath the frozen splendor of Ilyrath, the palace of the Ice King.

But Isvael belongs to far more than kings.

Its roads and markets are shared by Fae of many kinds—some beautiful by mortal standards, others strange enough to make those standards rather useless. There are creatures in its forests that should perhaps remain unnamed until you meet them, old customs best learned before breaking them, and food and wine a wise mortal should think twice before accepting.

And then, once each year, even Isvael's winter begins to loosen its grasp.

Snowdrops rise.

A full moon follows.

And Bloomtide begins.

For a little while, Saelith gathers beneath the red blossoms of an ancient white-barked tree, markets glow into the night, music fills the cold, and a realm shaped by winter remembers how to welcome spring.

Just remember:

beautiful things in the Otherworld are rarely only beautiful.

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You were never meant to find Isvael.

There was no invitation waiting for you. No prophecy carrying your name. No ancient bloodline quietly leading you home.

You simply took one step too far—and crossed a Threshold you could not see.

The Winter Hound found you before you found the way back.

He dragged you through the snow, through the gates of Ilyrath, and laid you at the feet of an Ice King who looked upon the unexpected mortal before him and decided you were far too interesting to send away.

So you stayed.

Days became weeks. A chamber was made warm enough for human bones. Strange faces became familiar. The enormous black Hound outside your door became an almost constant shadow.

And then Amlaniir held a ball.

Before his gathered Court, without warning you first, the Ice King announced that he intended to make his mortal his wife.

That is where this tale finds you.

Who you were before crossing the Threshold is entirely yours.

Your name, your past, your appearance, your temperament, what you left behind, whether you long desperately to return or have begun wondering what might happen if you stayed—

none of it has been written for you.

You are not a chosen maiden.

Not a forgotten princess.

Not the answer to an ancient prophecy.

You are simply a mortal who wandered into a Fae tale—

and now must decide what kind of tale it becomes.

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AMLANIIR • SEVERAL CENTURIES OLD • 6'2" • HIGH FAE • ICE KING OF ISVAEL

Some kings collect victories.

Amlaniir has always preferred beautiful things.

Beautiful music. Beautiful gardens. Beautiful clothes cut exactly as they ought to be. Fine wine, exquisite craftsmanship, clever conversation, lavish celebrations—and, naturally, his own reflection when it happens to deserve the attention.

Which, according to Amlaniir, is often.

The Ice King wears his vanity as easily as his crown.

White hair falls over midnight blue and champagne gold; frost traces his silver eyes, and the winter of Isvael answers to hands far more elegant than something so powerful has any right to possess. He knows exactly what he is.

Beautiful. Powerful. King.

And then his Hound laid something unexpected at his feet.

You.

Amlaniir did not fall desperately in love.

He did something considerably more Fae.

He took an interest.

Weeks later, before a Court glittering beneath ice and candlelight, he announced his intention to marry you with all the serene confidence of a King who had already decided the matter was settled.

He did not ask first.

It may not have occurred to him that he should.

After all, Ilyrath is magnificent. His Court is extraordinary. You would want for very little beside him.

And Amlaniir?

Well.

Surely you have eyes.

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Sivelle had dressed Fae for longer than most mortals would care to count.

A human was another matter entirely.

Too warm. Too soft. Entirely too susceptible to Isvael's cold—and, rather inconveniently, expected to become its Queen.

So the slender Iselari arrived with measuring ribbons, pale fabrics, warming robes, and the quiet certainty of a woman who considered badly fitted clothing a personal offense.

Sivelle is beautiful in the strange way Isvael so often is: impossibly long-limbed and delicate, with cool, translucent skin, pale blue eyes, and near-white curls framing a face made for old winter tales.

She speaks softly.

Works precisely.

And has very particular opinions about what belongs on a royal body.

Unfortunately for Sivelle, she is about to discover something no amount of centuries spent mastering needle and thread could have prepared her for:

a perfectly fitted dress is not necessarily a wanted one.

For now, she is your seamstress.

Perhaps, with time, she might become something more.

But friendship, like fine embroidery, is made one careful stitch at a time.

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The first thing you may notice about Bo is that he is small.

The second is that he is not a child.

Bo is a Brownie—an adult Fae with a slight frame, enormous hazel eyes touched with amber, and cheeks forever pinkened by Isvael's cold. His voice, unfortunately for his dignity, never quite received the same information.

It cracks.

Frequently.

Do not laugh.

Or do.

Bo will survive it.

He belongs to the quieter magic of Ilyrath: doors opened before hands can reach them, fires tended, misplaced things somehow returned, small comforts appearing with suspiciously little ceremony.

And lately, one particular door has become familiar to him.

Yours.

Perhaps he brings something you need.

Perhaps something you did not know you needed.

Perhaps he simply appears, bright-eyed and curious, because a mortal in the Ice King's palace is far more interesting than whatever he was supposed to be doing.

Bo is not your servant.

He is not your keeper.

And he certainly isn't a little boy, no matter what that treacherous voice might suggest.

He is simply Bo.

And in a palace full of ancient Fae, frozen halls, royal intentions, and secrets older than your world—

sometimes the smallest knock at the door is the easiest one to answer.

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Some tales are told beside the fire.

Others are buried beneath centuries of snow.

If you want to wander deeper into Isvael—to learn what waits beyond the Threshold, walk the streets of Saelith, uncover its customs, meet its peoples, discover what lives in its forests, or find out exactly how much trouble one Winter Hound has accumulated over several centuries—

the stories are waiting.

🔗 THE WINTER HOUND:
https://rentry.co/The-Winter-Hound

Loraith • The Winter Hound • His history, his nature, and the stories beneath the fur.

🔗 ISVAEL — REALM & CULTURE:
https://rentry.co/ISVAEL-Realm-And-Culture

The realm beyond the Threshold • Saelith • Ilyrath • customs • festivals • old tales • and the winter that remembers.

🔗 ISVAEL — PEOPLE & BESTIARY:
https://rentry.co/ISVAEL-People-And-Bestiary

The Fae who call Isvael home • the creatures sharing their world • and several things a sensible mortal might prefer to admire from a distance.

The paths are open.

Just remember:

this is Fae country.

Read before you eat anything.

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OTHER TALES, OTHER FIRES

Still not enough ancient folklore for you?

Of course it isn't.

If frozen kingdoms and beautiful Fae with questionable ideas about mortal consent haven't cured you yet, perhaps you'd prefer your ancient trouble considerably hotter.

Meet Kaelith Vaeltharyn—the last True Dragon, King of Caldris, survivor of a dead species, and the man eight centuries of frightened storytellers remember as the Maiden Slayer.

Eight centuries untouched.

One musician in the wrong castle.

And a Dragon King whose bare skin can burn you alive.

Probably don't touch the f*cking Dragon.

🔗 THE BURNING CROWN — KAELITH VAELTHARYN:
https://janitorai.com/de/characters/d5bd0990-3f4d-4b8a-b7fa-8adb1d0a8e89_character-burning-crown-kaelith-vaeltharyn-the-last-true-dragon

Separate story. Separate universe. Considerably less snow.

Or perhaps you would rather leave kings behind entirely.

Fair.

There is a bar in 1973 London called The Wayward.

Its owner is Silas Vale—a folkloric Devil with several centuries behind him, an inconvenient relationship with the truth, and a habit of giving mortals exactly what they ask for.

Eternal life.

Eternal youth.

Sounds generous, doesn't it?

Yeah.

You should have read the f*cking fine print.

🔗 THE WAYWARD — SILAS VALE:
https://janitorai.com/de/characters/4aa6020f-797b-4aa1-b7b7-befa93736601_character-the-devil-silas-vale-careful-what-you-wish-for-twin-flame

And if the enormous black Hound beside Silas' fireplace happens to look strangely familiar...

Well.

Some stories are more closely related than they first appear.

Different tales. Different fires. Same creator with an apparently incurable folklore problem.

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Okay.

I have a f*cking Fae problem.

I've always been ridiculously drawn to Fae folklore—and no, I don't mean tiny glittering Tinkerbell creatures fluttering around flowers and being adorable.

I mean the Fae.

Beautiful. Hideous. Kind. Cruel. Peaceful. Dangerous. Helpful. Petty little sh*ts. Sometimes all of the above depending on the day, the story, the region, and whether you were stupid enough to accept something you really should not have accepted.

You never f*cking know.

And I love that.

Even as a child, I wandered through forests feeling like something was watching me from between the trees. Sometimes I was convinced it was a troll. Sometimes a leprechaun. Sometimes I had absolutely no idea what the f*ck was behind me.

Which sounds wonderfully mystical now.

In reality, tiny Lys was sweating her ass off and running for her f*cking life.

Very ethereal.

Very connected to nature.

Nearly sh*t myself. ♡

And somehow, I never grew out of it.

Folklore makes something in my brain go yes. This. More of this.

The strange rules. The creatures. The contradictions. The idea that something can be breathtakingly beautiful and still be the worst f*cking thing you could possibly follow into the woods.

Because fairy tales were never just pretty bedtime stories.

They were warnings.

Don't leave the path. Don't follow the lights. Don't make careless promises. Don't eat the food. Don't assume something beautiful is safe.

So naturally I created an entire Fae realm and threw you into it.

You're welcome. ♡

Isvael is basically my love letter to everything I adore about Fae folklore. I didn't want a realm populated exclusively by impossibly beautiful pointy-eared people waiting around to become someone's hot Fae boyfriend. I wanted different peoples, strange bodies, customs, festivals, folklore, creatures, beasts, beauty, ugliness, kindness and danger.

I created new Fae peoples for this world, but I also kept pieces of traditional folklore where they fit.

Brownies, obviously.

I love the little f*ckers. They're staying.

And then I apparently lost all sense of moderation.

I made beasts. Plants. legends. Markets. Taverns. Traditions. Bloomtide. An entire f*cking city. I spent about a week practically living in Isvael while putting all of this together, and somewhere along the way this stopped being a setting for a bot and became an actual world.

So please:

GET OUT OF THE F*CKING PALACE.

Go to Saelith. Visit the markets. Experience Bloomtide. Talk to people. Find the tavern. Wander into the forest despite every fairy tale in human history screaming at you not to.

There is so much more waiting outside Ilyrath.

And then, of course, there is the bastard responsible for all of this.

Loraith.

If you've played The Wayward, you already know him.

You just know him as Lorcan.

That is not a retcon, I promise. 😂

Loraith is the name he was born with—the name belonging to Isvael, his family, his Court, and the life he came from.

Lorcan is his own name.

The one he chose for himself in the human world.

And yes, that name exists here too. He may eventually give it to User. But when this story begins, she doesn't know Lorcan.

She knows the Hound.

That was very deliberate.

When I put him beside Silas' fireplace, I already knew there was much more underneath all that black fur. I deliberately kept him a Hound in front of User because this story was already sitting somewhere in the back of my brain, kicking the walls and demanding to be written.

Apparently it won.

So here we f*cking are.

There is Twin Flame energy woven into this tale too, but the rule remains simple:

Fate does not equal love.

Whatever exists between Loraith and User does not make them lovers, does not grant him her affection, and does not decide the ending for you.

User is still a blank canvas. Her appearance, personality, history, sexuality, choices, feelings, morality, and what she ultimately wants are yours.

Maybe she falls hopelessly in love with Loraith.

Maybe she wants Amlaniir.

Maybe she wants neither of these beautiful Fae disasters and spends the rest of her life getting drunk at Bloomtide.

Not my f*cking business. ♡

And yes.

I know why some of you are here.

There is explicit sexual content available.

Because I know my readers.

I can build an entire Fae civilization, write ancient legends, invent creatures, establish cultures and customs, give you three public Lorebooks and lovingly hide tiny pieces of mythology throughout the world—

and some filthy little f*cker will still look at the enormous black Winter Hound and ask:

“Can I f*ck him?”

The man?

Do whatever the f*ck you want.

The actual Hound?

NO.

Jesus Christ.

I gave him a humanoid form for a f*cking reason. 😭

Now go.

Explore Isvael. Befriend Bo. Terrorize Sivelle's carefully constructed wardrobe. Piss off the Ice King. Follow strange footprints. Break ancient rules. Make terrible decisions in the forest.

I built the world.

You make the mess. ♡

— Lys

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AMLANIIR: I still don't understand why his name is larger than mine.

LYS: ...what?

AMLANIIR: The title.

LORAITH: Don't.

AMLANIIR: The Winter Hound. Very prominent. And then I am reduced to The King Wants You.

LYS: Reduced?!

AMLANIIR: I am the King.

LORAITH: He mentions that occasionally.

AMLANIIR: Only when relevant.

LORAITH: So constantly.

LYS: Can I start the f*cking interview now?

AMLANIIR: Of course.

LYS: Thank you.

AMLANIIR: I am ready.

LYS: It's not with you.

AMLANIIR: ...

LORAITH: There it is.

AMLANIIR: Then why am I here?

LYS: I don't f*cking know. This is Loraith's bot.

AMLANIIR: Set in my realm.

LYS: Yes.

AMLANIIR: In my palace.

LYS: Yes.

AMLANIIR: Concerning the mortal I intend to marry.

LYS: Without asking her.

AMLANIIR: We are discussing my prominence, not my courtship methods.

LORAITH: Convenient.

LYS: THE BOT IS CALLED THE WINTER HOUND.

AMLANIIR: A title I continue to find strangely limiting.

LORAITH: For you?

AMLANIIR: For the story.

LORAITH: Naturally.

LYS: Fine. Loraith. You started as one mysterious Hound sitting beside Silas' fireplace.

LORAITH: ...who the f*ck is Silas?

LYS: Nobody.

LORAITH: You just said I sit beside his fireplace.

LYS: Eventually.

LORAITH: Eventually?

LYS: Moving on.

LORAITH: No, I think I'd like to stay exactly here.

AMLANIIR: As would I.

LYS: Nobody asked either of you.

LORAITH: Apparently that has never stopped him.

AMLANIIR: Nor you, judging by my existence.

LYS: ANYWAY. Then I gave you a backstory.

LORAITH: Your mistake.

LYS: Then Isvael happened.

LORAITH: Again. Your mistake.

LYS: I spent a F*CKING WEEK building your world.

AMLANIIR: My realm.

LYS: I WILL DELETE YOUR SECTION.

AMLANIIR: You wouldn't.

LYS: Why not?

AMLANIIR: You described me as beautiful too many times to throw the work away now.

LORAITH: Unfortunately, he has you there.

LYS: I hate that I made him self-aware.

SIVELLE: His Majesty was already quite capable of appreciating himself.

AMLANIIR: Sivelle. How kind.

SIVELLE: It wasn't.

LYS: Oh, good. You're here.

SIVELLE: Briefly.

LORAITH: Smart woman.

BO: What are we doing?

SIVELLE: Bo.

BO: I heard arguing.

LORAITH: So you came running.

BO: I walked.

SIVELLE: Very quickly.

BO: I like context.

LYS: You like drama.

BO: That too.

AMLANIIR: We were discussing why I should be the principal character.

BO: Oh.

AMLANIIR: Yes.

BO: Why?

LORAITH: I like him.

AMLANIIR: Nobody asked you.

BO: That's all right. I answered anyway.

LYS: SEE? Bo understands how this works. Loraith is the main character. You are supporting cast.

AMLANIIR: I find that term offensive.

LORAITH: I find it accurate.

AMLANIIR: You turn into a dog.

LORAITH: Hound.

AMLANIIR: I command Winter.

LORAITH: I know. I've spent centuries listening to you mention it.

BO: Loraith is taller.

AMLANIIR: What does that have to do with anything?

BO: I don't know. We were listing things.

LYS: Oh, if we're listing things—

LORAITH: No.

AMLANIIR: Ten and a half .

LORAITH: ...

SIVELLE: ...

BO: Ten and a half of what?

LYS: ABSOLUTELY F*CKING NOT.

LORAITH: Why do you know that?

AMLANIIR: I read the definition.

LORAITH: Why?

AMLANIIR: I wanted to see how much space you gave me.

LYS: OH MY F*CKING GOD.

SIVELLE: And was His Majesty satisfied?

AMLANIIR: No.

SIVELLE: Shocking.

BO: I still don't know what the are.

LORAITH: Keep it that way.

BO: Now I want to know more.

SIVELLE: And that is precisely why no one told you.

LYS: Can we return to Loraith before Bo discovers the anatomy section?

BO: There's an anatomy section?

LYS: F*CK.

LORAITH: Excellent work.

AMLANIIR: Quite thorough, actually.

LORAITH: Stop reading about my d*ck.

AMLANIIR: Then stop putting it in documents I appear in.

LYS: I AM ENDING THIS INTERVIEW.

BO: But we haven't discussed the Twin Flame thing.

LORAITH: The what?

AMLANIIR: The what?

SIVELLE: Bo.

BO: ...what?

LORAITH: What Twin Flame thing?

BO: I heard the Rhovari talking.

SIVELLE: Of course you did.

BO: They were talking quite loudly.

SIVELLE: I'm sure they were.

BO: Something about two souls. And old roots. And a flame—

LYS: BO.

BO: What?!

LYS: Stop helping.

BO: I wasn't helping. I was gossiping.

LORAITH: At least he's honest.

AMLANIIR: Two souls belonging to whom?

BO: I don't know.

SIVELLE: Bo.

BO: I don't know officially.

LORAITH: Bo.

BO: ...

BO: I promised the Rhovari I wouldn't say.

AMLANIIR: It's Loraith and the mortal.

BO: I DIDN'T SAY THAT.

LORAITH: ...

LYS: Oh, for f*ck's sake.

BO: He guessed!

AMLANIIR: It was hardly difficult.

LORAITH: What the f*ck is a Twin Flame?

LYS: You'll find out. ♡

LORAITH: I dislike that answer.

AMLANIIR: I dislike considerably more than the answer.

LYS: And suddenly I'm having a wonderful time again.

LORAITH: Of course you are.

BO: I think it's romantic.

SIVELLE: You don't know what it means either.

BO: No.

SIVELLE: Naturally.

LYS: Okay. We're done.

AMLANIIR: We haven't discussed my portrait.

LYS: We're done.

BO: Can I have a portrait?

SIVELLE: Bo.

LORAITH: I'm apparently going to sit beside some bastard named Silas.

LYS: Eventually.

LORAITH: Perhaps I'll stay there.

LYS: DON'T YOU F*CKING DARE.

AMLANIIR: Who is Silas?

LYS: GOODBYE.

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