Chapter Text
There is a world out there that knows of monsters, of creatures that lurk in bedtime stories.
Terra, it is called.
In this realm, magic and myths exist alongside humanity. And for all of the good that magic brings into the world, the human aspect is what ensures that people continue to struggle.
The Fae live charmed lives, quite literally, in the forests of the east. So charmed, in fact, that they have become indifferent to the needs of others.
The lands to the north are lawful, to be sure. Organized and orderly—and under the iron-fisted rule of the Argent clan.
Werewolf fiefdoms span across the plains of the west. But they squabble amongst themselves so often that the dirt is perpetually red.
War and prejudice amongst the races are not uncommon—but the ultimate oppressor shines gold and silver. Shining ever so great, even as the rest of the world turns a shade of grey.
And in spite of this ever-present evil, a town called Beacon Hills acts as a spark in the dark.
It’s not much of a town, not really. Not even a village, just a speck on a map. Beacon Hills sits in the middle of a crossroads between the Argent Stronghold, the Hale Kingdom, and the outer Yukimura Territories—acting as little more than a watering hole for travelers passing through and a well-worn boundary for each kingdom’s restless troops.
Beacon Hills, despite its small size, boasts many a trading post and tavern for the merchants and bands of knights passing through. Business is always steady, neither fast nor slow. The service is forever doomed to be adequate, mildly enjoyable but always forgettable.
Many a traveler has wondered briefly at the irony of Beacon Hills, given that its beacon only attracts those who would never deign to live along its cobbled streets, and only ever for an ale or two.
But those travelers are fucking idiots.
Beacon Hills has a most apt namesake, for it was named after The Beacon.
The Beacon, rumored to be the oldest building in the west.
In the world.
An inn, plain and well-kept, hidden away at the edge of the Black Forest. It stands defiant—timeless—in the face of an ever-greedy society. The Beacon remains a local favorite, its worn brass keys passed down each generation to the eldest child of the town’s first settled family.
The Finstocks.
Yes, those Finstocks—house-elves of old.
They have kept The Beacon running and many a traveler safe for hundreds of years. Oh yes, the Finstocks are quite good keepers of things, including the true secret of the inn’s success—that it rests upon the real crossroads of Beacon Hills, the greatest intersection of ley lines in all of Terra.
It is there, on that most magical of spots, that the inn stands—admittedly rather short and quite lopsided, the Finstocks, after all, are good keepers, not builders—and business is always booming.
Because in a land where the rich get ridiculously richer and the poor stay, well, poor, The Beacon is a place that calls to those truly in need.
And with a realm such as Terra, one constantly at war, that need is ever-present.
It beckons to those with an empty belly, guides the lost towards a soft bed, and those with troubled spirits to a crowd of like-minds and kind-hearts.
The Beacon was built as a placeholder for the restless, the outcasts, the needy. A hodgepodge mix of customers turned regulars turned family—a true symbol of hope and safety.
And it remains true to this day, in the spastic hands of one Robert Eleanor Finstock III, the last of his name but not of the calling.
For he found the spirit of a house-elf in the rough, grieving hands of a young man. One who had just lost everything and needed to find something to live for once again.
And that is where this tale begins, in a small inn along the outskirts of a forest in a place far—so goddamned far—away.
It begins with a lonely young man finding his footing in such a strange and ridiculous place, only to have a royal werewolf stumble in and fall hopelessly, and quite wonderfully, in love.