As they prepared to leave after a light breakfast of black coffee and fruit, Alaric offered to drive to the Waygate closest to the Queen's Court.
Wickham's voice floated from behind. "If we die mid-transit, I call dibs on haunting the wine cellar."
The Fae stopped at the steps outside of the Hall, etched with sigils. He turned to Grey, smile faint. "It's time you learned to Veilshift, mo chridhe. It really beats driving."
At Grey's questioning gaze, he explained.
"It's how immortals move between fixed points. Not walking—folding. Mortals can't usually do it without help—without magic. But now you can learn the shape of it well enough."
Grey's eyes lit with curiosity. "Like teleporting?"
Alaric smiled softly with quiet joy at Grey's inquisitiveness.
"Like asking the world to forget where you are, and then remembering somewhere else instead," Alaric said, reaching out, smoothing a strand of silvery silk behind Grey's ear.
She swallowed, trying to pretend the gesture didn't make her brain promptly shut off.
Wickham groaned. "Wonderful. Molecular travel. My liver already hurts. I'd rather we take the old girl for now," he grumbled, rapping a knuckle on the Land Rover's dusty bonnet.
"When can I learn?" Grey asked, breathlessly eager, climbing into the passenger seat, while Wickham mumbled something unintelligible to the tune of "rude pretty women who don't even call shotgun".
Alaric swung himself into the driver's seat with preternatural grace.
"Later," he grinned.
And they were off.
Isolde had granted them passage through her realm once more. A formality really, the shimmering wards sighed in recognition as Grey approached, allowing them to descend the stair without incident.
A grim-looking guard waited at the base of the stair, his leathers blackened by time and stitched with what looked like runes made from old bone. A jagged scar ran down one cheek, drawing the eye to the steel in his gaze—but when he bowed, it was with grace and deference.
"My Queen sends regrets. She is not receiving visitors at present," he said, voice low and edged with regret. His eyes lingered on Grey, and he bowed deeper still.
"But she bids you welcome to her hall, Greylene Wyrde. And grants you passage to the relic chamber."
Alaric stepped forward, eyes widening. "Ciran?" he said.
The scarred man gave a faint smile. "Still breathing, Hunt Lord. And still loyal."
They clasped wrists briefly, the respect between them unspoken but palpable. "You were always the most stubborn bastard in her retinue," Alaric said.
"And proud of it. Come. The armory enchantments are old, but they still recognize blood and intent. I'll guide you through."
He turned, leading them through the veil-draped archway.
The passage was older than memory, carved when the world still whispered with the first threads of language. Roots veined the walls like petrified veins, and the air was thick with the weight of breath not drawn for centuries. Every step stirred motes of dust that glittered faintly with the remnants of magic.
Grey kept close to Alaric, her eyes wide. "You're sure this is safe?"
"Define safe," Alaric replied dryly.
They emerged beneath in silence.
The air of the Underveil was heavier here, touched with a kind of sorrow too old to fade. They stood on cracked marble veined with ivy and regret, the entrance hall of what had once been the Queen's court in the early days, before the decline set in.
Alaric stood still, looking up at the high vaulted arches now broken with time. Moss veiled shattered stained glass. Columns leaned like drunks in mourning.
He walked ahead slowly, each step echoing.
Memories returned unbidden. Isolde in full regalia. The laughter of courtiers. A stolen kiss in a hidden corridor. He had once run through these halls barefoot, young and angry and hungry for meaning.
Grey followed, but her stride faltered. The air here felt thick with memory—but not her own. She blinked, and for a heartbeat saw Alaric's hands cupping flame in a library. Saw a hallway drenched in moonlight. A kiss behind a tapestry. She stumbled.
Alaric turned. "You felt that?"
Grey nodded, unnerved. "It wasn't mine. But it felt like..."
"Mine," Alaric said gently, his expression unreadable.
Wickham's voice tried to pierce the mood. "Charming place. Dead royalty, haunted halls, scent of eternal despair—very on brand."
Alaric didn't laugh. He pushed open the door to the armory.
The room was still. Dust hung like velvet in shafts of faded moonlight, catching on the edges of shelves and display racks carved from living blackwood.
Grey's breath hitched as she looked around.
Runes faintly glowed across the stone floor, forming protective circles around weapons of eerie elegance and age. Blades forged of metals no longer known to the mortal world gleamed beside spears tipped with meteorite and bows strung with phoenix sinew. Armor floated weightlessly above plinths, engraved with forgotten lineages, their helms shaped like beasts, birds, and stars. Incense had long since burned to ash, but its ghost still lingered—sharp with memory, threaded with sorrow.
At the far end, a massive shape knelt before the dais. A stone guardian—its features weathered to smoothness—rested with a blade embedded through its chest. The only light came from the Oathblade itself, glowing faintly in the gloom like a heartbeat waiting to be claimed.
The Oathblade.
It pulsed faintly. Not with light, but presence. Threads of starlight swam inside its darkened steel.
Grey stared. "That's it?"
Maerlowe's voice came unbidden in her mind: One of the Five Sacred Relics. Ritual executioner's blade. It does not choose lightly.
Wickham crossed his arms and nodded at the petrified guardian. "All this ceremony. Starting to feel a bit Sword-in-the-Stone, isn't it?"
Grey raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm Arthur?"
"Please," Wickham scoffed, "You're far better looking. No offense to the Once and Future King, of course." He tilted his head. "Though honestly, the haircut in those woodcuts could use a miracle."
Alaric, still watching the blade, smiled faintly without turning. "He was shorter than you'd expect. And had a temper like a cornered dragon. But no, he wasn't half as pretty," he winked.
Grey's face pinkened as she suppressed a grin, her heart doing a traitorous flutter. She scowled instead.
"Alright, you two. Either get a room or get on with it," Wickham said. "Preferably the latter before the former."
Grey stepped forward instinctively, hand outstretched.
The blade pushed back.
A gentle pulse of magic, firm but not cruel. She gasped, her hand faintly numb.
Wickham clucked. "Guess it's not your accessory after all, darling."
Grey turned to them, blinking.
Alaric stepped past them both, shoulders tensing. He bowed his head and lifted his hand. It hovered, trembling faintly. Then closed over the hilt.
The moment he gripped the hilt, the world inhaled.
A rush of air roared inward. Light burst outward. The throne room screamed with old magic.
A shout tore from Alaric's throat. Grey lunged forward, but Wickham held her back.
"Wait," he said. "It's not done."
They watched, horrified, as sigils erupted across Alaric's skin. From his fingertips up his arms, curling across his chest. The symbols shimmered.
Grey ran to him. Caught him as he fell to one knee.
Alaric's jaw clenched. The sigils pulsed like molten gold. His free hand gripped her shoulder hard.
His breath hitched. Then he sagged.
Grey could feel the tremor. The cost. His weight leaned into her.
"I'm alright," Alaric murmured, clearly lying. But he smiled. "Just... need a moment to breathe again, mo chridhe."
Their bond surged. Grey felt it all—the weight of centuries, the sorrow, the cold certainty.
Wickham whispered, "That thing didn't just accept you. It bound you."
Alaric exhaled. The light faded. He still held the blade, trembling.
"It remembers me," he said. "What I am. And what I must do."
Grey knelt before him. "Why didn't it burn me?"
"Because it's not yours to carry."
She traced the ink along his arm.
"This blade doesn't kill like mortal steel. It unmakes."
"But why you?"
"Because I already chose it. Long ago." He was going to have to explain that bit to her.
"And our bond? It's stronger. Clearer."
He didn't respond.
Grey nodded. She'd ask later.
They camped at the edge of the ruins. Maerlowe had as usual appeared out of thin air and prepared tea and a fire. Alaric lay sleeping beside her.
Grey lay under the stars, still feeling the heat of his skin.
Wickham leaned toward her.
"You saw it too. The blade didn't give him power. It took something."
Maerlowe stirred the coals. "It always asks a price."
Grey closed her eyes.
How much more is Alaric willing to give?
And worse:
How much more am I willing to let him?
An Excerpt from the Folio of Threads: The Oathblade
Forged in moonfire, quenched in grief,
Bound to sorrow, sworn belief.
One of Five, a blade of fate,
It does not yield, nor hesitate.
To wield it is to shun all peace,
To carry judgment that won't cease.
It answers those who pay the cost
Who know what's gained is more than lost.
It sings for hands both grave and wise,
That see the end behind all lies.
But even then—beware its name:
Forgiveness is not within its flame.