Thollan Veltharne

Thollan Veltharne, once a minor Sidhe courtier of little note, now walks the icy halls of the Winter Court as its most tragic irony—a man surrounded by decadence, yet forbidden to taste it. As Steward of Meals and Wine for Prince Cyrix, Thollan oversees every course, every glass poured, every delicate sliver of feyfruit or wine-slicked venison served on silver plates. The perfumes of roasted herbs and crystalline nectar cling to him like ghosts, and he moves with the reverence of a priest in a sacred rite. Yet he does not eat. He cannot drink. That pleasure was stripped from him.   Once, long ago, Thollan dared a single indulgence—a bite from a slice of blood-orange tart meant for the Prince, stolen while no one watched. But Cyrix sees everything, even when he appears not to care. Thollan was not cast out, nor slain, nor cursed to scream for eternity. Instead, Cyrix condemned him to serve forever, in velvet and frost, never again allowed to partake in the splendor he now must orchestrate. A cruel punishment cloaked in civility—the Prince’s specialty.   He has not aged, for he is Sidhe, but he has withered. His cheeks are hollow, his fingers trembling and long, yet elegant still. His once-rich voice has grown papery, barely above a whisper, yet he recites wine pairings and the histories of rare dishes with heartbreaking precision. His eyes hold hunger not just for food, but for lost privilege, for the taste of life as it once was. When others laugh at his torment, he only bows deeper, his smile practiced, his grief measured in teaspoons.   To the guests of Cyrix’s court, Thollan is part of the performance—a living reminder of restraint, consequence, and the cold poetry of punishment. Yet some whisper that he takes small revenges in his service: wine chilled just a little too much, seasoning adjusted to unsettle a palate, subtle shifts in menu that reveal a guest’s secrets. Whether this is true, or just a myth whispered over dessert, none can say. But every meal Thollan serves carries the scent of longing, and every cup he pours is a chalice of bittersweet obedience.