Friday. 3:47 PM. Still not Tuesday. But oh, the drama.
It began, as many magical upheavals tend to, with a very self-satisfied tap tap tap at the kitchen window.
Seraphina looked up from her book ("Stabbing With Style: A Modern Guide to Unseelie Dueling") and gave the winged creature outside a long, narrow stare. It was not an owl.
It wanted to be an owl. It was cosplaying as an owl. But Seraphina was Unseelie, and Unseelie knew better.
She rose, chai in one hand, suspicion in the other, and opened the window.
The creature fluttered in with a whumph of midnight feathers, eyes glowing with that faintly judgmental gleam only reserved for apex messengers. Its talons were too sharp. Its body was too silent. Its feathers shimmered like oil and regret. This was no barn owl.
This was a miniature phantom wing.
And it was pretending.
"Nice try," she told it flatly, placing her tea down. "But your eyeliner's too dramatic, and your vibe's too murdery."
The bird gave her a deadpan look that practically screamed I flew through three realities for this shit.
Then it stuck out a leg.
A scroll was tied to it, sealed in wax that bore the sigil of the Nightmare Court bloodmoon silver entwined with thorns.
Seraphina untied it with shaking fingers.
And read.
> To: Seraphina L.L. Potter-Peverell
From: Hunt. (Fine. Caius Everen Grey. I forgot mortals like legal names.)
I got your ping. Couldn't ignore it. Trust me, I tried.
First off: yes, it's me. Yes, you're not crazy. Yes, I am still alive. Mostly.
Out of the 28 of us, only you and I are left. The rest of Earthside Nightmare was culled that same night. Demons. I watched it happen. So did Father.
And now I've been stuck in a dump called Woolwich Orphanage for over a decade because, apparently, being a fae adult means nothing to the people here unless a 'legal guardian' comes to sign the bloody book.
Would love it if you could fix that.
Also, warning: Nightshade Kin our realm-bound branch.are pissed. They felt the culling and tried to come for us. But Earth is under Class 12 Threat Lockdown. No inter-realm travel. Not even for rescue.
Which means whoever did this wanted us alone. Trapped. Forgotten.
So. Come get me?
We've got some corpses to dig up. Some spines to extract. Some traditions to revive.
Also, I'm pretty sure the staff here think I'm cursed. They're not wrong.
With love and passive-aggressive trauma,
Hunt.
Seraphina set the letter down slowly.
Then turned to the phantom wing, who was now sitting on her countertop staring expectantly at the cupboard like a spoiled heir waiting for inheritance.
"What, you want a treat?"
Blink.
"You flew through chaos and shadow for this, didn't you?"
Blink. Blink.
"Fine."
She opened the cupboard. There, in the corner of course was a small tin labeled "Owl Treats (Phantom Wing Approved)" with a gold Unseelie seal.
Inside: still fresh.
Because of course Unseelie snacks had interdimensional shelf-life.
She pulled out three. Always three. Sacred number. Rule of power.
The phantom wing took them one by one with the grace of a courtier being offered ritual sacrifice, bobbed its head once, let out a polite hoot of pleasure, and then strutted to the window like it expected applause.
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "You'll get your letter in a second."
She grabbed parchment, ink, and a ridiculously carved feather pen because of course that was what was provided, and scribbled:
> To: Hunt / Caius / Trauma Buddy Supreme
Got your letter.
1. Glad you're alive.
2. Furious about why.
3. I have a trailer.
4. I have a license.
5. I have chai.
You're getting rescued, cousin.
Whoever's keeping you stuck? They'd better start writing their will in edible ink, because I'm going to spoon their spine out of their body and serve it with scones.
See you soon.
Bring snacks if you can. Unless the orphanage has bad taste, in which case I'll burn it to the ground on principle.
–Seraphina
She folded the parchment, tied it to the bird's leg, and opened the window.
The phantom wing gave her a curt, satisfied blink and launched into the sky like a dagger through mist.
Seraphina stood at the sill, hair trailing in the wind, sipping her chai and watching the horizon as if daring it to blink first.
Then her gaze shifted to the front yard.
There it was. Still parked. Still gleaming like a bribe.
A pristine, cherry-red trailer.
No registration. No paperwork. Just there a gift from a family she'd forgotten, waiting to be used like destiny's ride-share service.
"Well then," she muttered, downing the last of her tea. "Let's go liberate my murder-obsessed cousin and maybe piss off the Ministry while we're at it."
She threw on a leather jacket, grabbed a duffel, called Vespera from the heat pad ("We ride, danger noodle"), and headed for the trailer.
Because if Earth thought it could keep a Nightmare Court heir imprisoned?
It had forgotten what the Unseelie do when they get mad.