The Archfey laughed when the sky fell. It was a punchline about gravity, apparently—a cosmic jest that manifested as a localized meteor shower during the Silver-Wing Promenade. Zephyrin watched as sixty-four of his brothers-in-arms, the finest aerial guard in the Summer Court, were pulverized into iridescent dust. There was no tactical failure, no enemy to strike back at, only the 'whimsical' cruelty of a bored deity. In the silence that followed the laughter, Zephyrin didn't weep; he broke. He realized that the Feywild’s beauty was a mask for a terrifying, unstructured void. Life without Law was not freedom—it was a slaughterhouse.
He fled the courts that evening, carrying only his commander’s whistle and the Iris Spike. To punish his own fey nature, he used cold-iron wire to bind lead fishing weights to his wings, ensuring he would never again drift aimlessly on a breeze. He began to draft the 'Code of the Micro-Kingdom,' a rigid set of 1,400 laws governing everything from combat formations to the proper way to discard an apple core. He has since carved a tiny, bloody path through the Material Plane, hiring himself out to those who value order over morality. He is currently under contract with a local Margrave to 'clear the pests'—a task Zephyrin has interpreted as the systematic execution of every chaotic-aligned creature in the county.