Rain slanted through the dreary morning as the three emerged from the stone ring, soaked in shadow and silence. The Land Rover waited where they had left it, just past the moss-grown standing stones. Wickham didn't speak as they climbed in. His usual barbs were dulled, left sheathed.
Grey leaned her temple to the cool windowpane and let the glass steal the heat from her skin as trees blurred by, washed in mist and memory. Something in her had changed. Not painfully. Not loudly. But it was there—like breathing with new lungs. She saw light now where once there'd been only shade, delicate threads of energy laced through the world like veins of silver in stone.
With every mile they passed, the connection deepened. Every so often, her fingers would twitch, and she'd glance down, half expecting the shimmer to be gone—but it lingered, faint but real, glimmering like spider silk spun beneath the skin.
Alaric drove without a word, but his eyes flicked toward the rear-view mirror every few minutes, checking on her. There was reverence in the glance. And fear. She reached forward, resting her arm over his shoulder, fingers curling absently in the dark tangles of his hair. He leaned into her touch without a word.
Wickham, quiet for far too long, finally sighed. "Well, I can't say I've ever left a royal court without at least one assassination attempt. That was new."
No one laughed.
Maerlowe was waiting at the Hall's threshold, wind tugging at his coat, golden light behind him casting long shadows across the stones. When he saw Grey, he froze. The carved runes above the door flickered softly, as if exhaling—a shimmer of recognition rippling through old enchantments. Not alarm. Something older. Warmer. Familiar.
New sigils stirred faintly in the lintel, appearing like forgotten memories surfacing in stone.
"You shine now," Maerlowe murmured, his gaze sweeping across her face, pausing at the strands of silver woven through her hair, at the faint starlight glow catching on the curves of her cheekbones.
Grey gave a crooked, self-conscious smile. "How do I look?"
Maerlowe tilted his head, thoughtful. "Like a legend just waking up."
She gave a huff, running a hand through her hair, which now caught the light like silver thread. "I feel like I could move a mountain."
"If he lets you try," Wickham muttered casting a sidelong glance at Alaric, stepping in behind her, arms crossed. He gave her a once-over and raised a brow. "Start with something smaller. Maybe a wardrobe."
Grey smirked. "I'll take that under advisement."
Maerlowe studied her with the precision of a scholar cataloguing a live comet. "Tell me honestly—how do you feel?"
She hesitated, searching for words. "Like... myself. But more. The threads—they're not pulling anymore. They're singing. It's strange. But not wrong."
Wickham nudged her lightly. "That's your cue to look soulful and mutter something about destiny, darling. But we'll let you ease into it."
As they entered, the Hall responded in subtle ways. Wards that had once ignored her now leaned toward her like old dogs recognising a forgotten master. Candles flared. Dust-laden tomes rustled on their shelves. Grey walked forward, and the old place watched.
"There have been signs," Maerlowe said, guiding them inside. "While you were away... a soulwell collapsed in Cornwall. A haunting opened in a sealed shrine in Northumbria. And a scout returned from Hollowmere—what was left of him, anyway. The dead are restless. They want something."
They descended in silence to the kitchen. A simple meal awaited—roast beef drenched in thick gravy, golden potatoes, glazed carrots, Yorkshire puddings puffed like promises of comfort. The scent was rich and real and anchored in home.
Alaric pulled out a chair for her, his hand brushing the small of her back. His touch felt more possessive now, even as he tried—and failed—to keep his distance. The warmth lingered, making her skin prickle.
Wickham began carving the roast with theatrical flair, muttering something about divine providence and domestic bliss. Maerlowe poured the tea, steady as always.
"First proper meal since the Highlands," Alaric noted.
Grey smiled—but it wavered. She lifted her fork, then paused. Her stomach didn't turn with hunger. No pang. No ache. Just... absence.
Why am I not hungry? The question bloomed in her mind like a bruise, sharp with something almost like an insult. Food had always been a comfort, a tether. She liked honeycakes, damn it. Was this one of the unadvertised costs of transformation? What else would slip quietly away before she noticed it gone?
"I'm not hungry," she said blinked owlishly. "At all."
A pause. Then exchanged glances across the table.
Wickham gave a resigned groan. "Oh, that. Normal. Technically. Body doesn't need food anymore. But skipping biscuits? That's where I draw the line. That's not life—that's purgatory."
Grey blinked. "Seriously?" A life of not having to count every calorie she put in her mouth? Bring it on.
He pointed at the potatoes. "Half-Fae now, darling. Appetites shift. But the ones that stay? Treasure them. Especially the pudding."
Grey took a bite. The flavours bloomed—rich, nostalgic—but they felt distant. Like memory instead of sensation. Still, she chewed slowly, thoughtfully. Across from her, Alaric watched—not intrusively, but quietly. As if anchoring himself to the sight of her still here, still real.
And for all that had shifted, the warmth around that table reminded her: she still belonged.
Later, wandering the candlelit corridors, Grey found him leaning against a stone wall, arms folded, shadows pooling around him. He looked up when she approached. His fingers drummed restlessly against his elbow.
"Do you still see me?" she asked, voice barely audible. She was afraid of the answer—afraid that he didn't approve of her choice, that whatever tether had bound them might have frayed the moment she stepped fully into herself.
He studied her face—long, lingering. "More clearly than ever. That's what frightens me."
She stepped closer. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"No," he murmured. "But you didn't run from it, either." He somehow looked proud—guarded, yes, but proud, like some part of him had been waiting for this moment and didn't know how to say so.
They stood close. Breath to breath. But not touching.
Not yet.
The next morning, the wards shrieked. A corrupted soul slammed against the boundary—half-glamour, half-rotted grief, trailing stolen Seelie magic like smoke. It screamed, clawing the veil between worlds. Grey didn't think. She moved.
One hand lifted, glowing faintly with the echo of the black star. Threads of starlight unspooled from her fingertips. The soul shrieked and lunged. Alaric was there in an instant, blade flashing. Wickham appeared opposite, eyes blazing with something old and furious.
Grey shouted a word she didn't know, and the threadlight surged into a sigil midair. It snapped into place. The soul froze—then shattered like ash in the wind.
She dropped to her knees, panting. Wickham caught her by the shoulders. Alaric knelt before her, eyes wide with awe and something deeper.
"You didn't even flinch," he said.
"I didn't think," she whispered. "It felt... natural."
Which was, frankly, new. For most of her life, Grey had possessed the self-preservation instincts of a newborn duckling—vague, flailing, and prone to walking straight into danger while blinking thoughtfully. But now? Now instinct had arrived like an uninvited guest, wearing her skin like it had always belonged. Figures, she thought wryly.
Later, at the war table, they gathered around maps and markers. The word Hollowmere curled like a warning across yellowed parchment. Maerlowe pointed. "Its gate was one of the first sealed. If we can unbind that knot—others may follow."
"But we'll need the Spindle's Twin," Wickham added. "And you know those aren't exactly sold at garden centres."
"I may know where it lies," Maerlowe said. "Getting there will be the challenge."
Grey, frowning, asked, "What is the Spindle's Twin?"
Maerlowe retrieved the Harrower's Book. Its spine cracked softly as he opened it.
"Sister to Ailbhe's gift," he read aloud. "Spins clarity into chaos. Threads order into unraveled fate. Hidden after the Dissolution. Never recovered."
"Which," Wickham said with exaggerated drama, slouching into a chair, "means it's somewhere ridiculous. Thorns, traps, curses. Possibly only accessible by someone pure of heart or delightfully mad. Fingers crossed, hmm?"
He winked at Grey. "And I do hope we get a fight out of it. Big fella here, shirtless, swinging that monster sword of his around—muscles flexing, hair flying. It'll be like a romance novel cover come to life."
Grey flushed scarlet. "I—Wick—!"
Alaric, without missing a beat, leaned in close, breathing right into her ear. "If you want me shirtless, mo chridhe, you need only ask."
Grey groaned and covered her face with both hands. "I hate you both."
Maerlowe didn't even look up. "Focus," But there was the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.
Grey looked around at them—this impossible collection of misfits, warriors, scholars, fools. She loved them all for making her feel so... normal. Well, as normal as a ghost-busting, fate-weaving 22 year old immortal was ever going to feel.
Her people. It was time to stop hiding behind them.
It was time to lead.
Except from the diary of Grey Wyrde
I stood alone tonight, staring into the library window like it might give me answers. Moonlight found me there—my reflection caught mid-thought, painted in silver and shadow. My hair looks different now. Like starlight. My eyes too. Sharper. Older. Or maybe I'm just seeing myself properly for the first time.
I didn't recognise the girl looking back. But for once... I didn't need to.
I reached for the glass, the cold biting against my skin, and whispered a promise I didn't know I was carrying: I won't be a weapon.
And the dark—for once—held its breath and listened.