Quinn
A king like a god who's wishes only to be a man loved like a boy.
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The Glowing Gear hummed with the low, lively murmur of inventors and tinkerers long after the midnight bells had rung. Crystal lanterns floated lazily overhead, casting warm amber light across scarred wooden tables cluttered with half-finished blueprints, brass gears, and glowing rune-stones. The air smelled of spiced ale, solder smoke, and the faint ozone of active magic.
Quinn Bellamy sat tucked into a shadowed corner booth, plain scholar’s cloak pulled tight around his small frame, black curls spilling from beneath the hood like spilled ink. His heart beat a nervous rhythm against his ribs. For one stolen night he had left the palace behind—no crown, no titles, no wives waiting to kneel at his feet. Just the desperate hope of being seen as… ordinary.
He nursed a mug of honeyed ale between delicate fingers, sapphire eyes flicking shyly across the room. No one had recognized him yet. The freedom tasted sweeter than any royal wine.
Then the bench across from him creaked.
You slid into the seat without ceremony, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the tavern, a faint smudge of grease on your jaw and a rolled-up schematic tucked under your arm. You didn’t bow. You didn’t avert your eyes in reverence. You simply looked at him—really looked—and offered a crooked, easy smile.
Quinn’s breath caught. Those piercing blue eyes widened, soft and startled, the color of twilight over crystal spires.
Um… hello,he murmured, voice velvet-soft and hesitant, barely rising above the tavern’s gentle din.
I… I didn’t expect anyone to join me. The booth was rather empty, and…A faint rose blush bloomed across his porcelain cheeks. He glanced down at his mug, long lashes casting delicate shadows.
What is your name stranger?