The morning came slowly to Harrower's Hall, filtered through the high stained-glass windows and limned in hues of rose and gold. Somewhere in the east wing, a kettle whistled. Soft footsteps padded down corridors as the Hall began to stir.
Grey stood before the door to Alaric's chamber, uncertain. The Oathblade's choosing still haunted her—not in fear, but in awe. She lifted her hand to knock, hesitated, then let her knuckles fall with a soft rap.
"Come in," came the reply, calm and warm.
Alaric sat propped on a nest of blankets, still shirtless. The sigils across his chest and arms shimmered faintly, like phosphorescence beneath water. A steaming mug rested in one hand, his expression open and at ease.
Grey entered, trying very hard not to stare at 6 ft 5 of mostly naked male Fae—honestly, barely at all.
"You're not resting," she said, slightly breathless.
"I'm not dead," Alaric replied with a grin. "Come. Sit."
She crossed the room and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. For a moment, silence bloomed, filled only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
"You look…" Grey searched for a word. He looks freaking fantastic, she screamed at herself internally. "...Better?" She finished weakly.
"I am. The worst has passed. The blade's magic… it takes its price quickly, at least." He glanced down at the marks carved into his skin. "Now it just sings quietly to itself. Like a vulture humming a lullaby."
He shifted, wincing slightly, his expression tightening for a heartbeat before smoothing again. The sigils glimmered faintly with the movement, casting spectral reflections across his bare shoulders.
Grey gave a strained smile. "We have the Oathblade now. But what does that mean?"
"It means we have the power to end this. Truly end it. Though violence is not the path I'd choose first," Alaric said, his voice low. "It may be the only one Caderyn understands. He was shaped by conquest. Power for power's sake. Diplomacy to him is weakness—unless backed by a blade sharp enough to draw the stars themselves."
He shifted again, muscles rippling subtly, breath catching as another pulse of magic stirred within the tattoos. "And now we carry that blade."
Her eyes found the fire. "And at what cost?"
Alaric sipped his tea. "Always a cost. But this—this was a burden I accepted long ago."
Grey tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Alaric looked into the fire. "When I chose to bear the Oathblade, I knew it would mark me—claim a piece of me. Its magic doesn't just test your strength, it remembers your intentions. The burden isn't just in the pain—it's in the permanence. Once accepted, the blade ties itself to your essence. It will never let go. It judges not just what you fight, but why. And now that tie extends to you, through the bond I made."
Grey looked at him then. "When did the Oathblade choose you?"
Alaric hesitated. "During a time when Caderyn and I still rode together," he said at last, voice distant. "Before everything broke."
Seeing the flicker of pain in his eyes, Grey didn't press further.
"There's something else. I can feel it. Between us. The bond."
Alaric grew quiet.
"Aye," he said finally. "You feel it because I bound myself to you. When I wove the spell, I used a piece of my own lifeforce to seal the Oathblade's acceptance. I tied it to a purpose… and to you."
Grey inhaled sharply. Her eyes widened, emotions crashing through her and flitting across her features: shock, reverence, disbelief, joy. Her mouth parted, then closed again. The flames in the hearth reflected in her eyes, flickering like unanswered questions.
"You didn't tell me," she whispered.
"You weren't meant to know. Not yet."
"But it's one-sided?"
"For now." Alaric's voice was gentle. "The bond remains open. Incomplete. You haven't spoken the final word. Not until you understand what it means to promise forever."
Grey swallowed. "Then let me speak it. I want to. Teach me."
Alaric reached for her hand and held it tightly, a grim set to his lips.
"Not yet, mo chridhe. When your immortality settles. When you've seen a century pass like mist. When you can name your griefs without counting them. Only then."
Grey bowed her head. She couldn't pretend that the rejection didn't sting. But she understood the wisdom in what he was saying. That he was speaking from experience. "That might take a long time."
He looked at her, certainty settling in those unfathomable amber eyes.
"I'll wait," Alaric said.
Forever, if need be, he didn't say.
By morning, Alaric had risen, his usual belligerently graceful self. The marks across his body now glowed with a subtle, steady radiance. They made him look otherworldly—like something half-etched in starlight and shadow.
This time clad in a slate-grey button-down left scandalously unbuttoned at the top, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His movements were relaxed, feline, as if the blade had melted into him and found a home.
Grey watched him move, entranced.
"You're staring," Alaric said, smug.
"You're glowing," Grey replied, blushing.
"Only for you, mo chridhe." He grinned and a giggle bubbled up in her chest before she could stop it.
Alaric reached out his hand. "Come. It's time you learned the Shift."
They walked to the sigil stones beneath the open sky, where magic hummed faintly beneath their boots.
"To Veilshift," Alaric began, "you don't force the world. You ask it."
"I ask the world?" Grey echoed.
"Yes. You must ask it to forget where you are. And then remember where you wish to be."
Grey tilted her head. "That's… poetic."
"Magic often is."
Alaric took her hand, and in an instant, the world blurred.
Her stomach lurched as if she'd stepped off a high ledge. When the air cleared, they stood on a green hill crowned with ancient stones and dandelions dancing in the breeze. Below them, soft mist pooled in the valleys.
"The Hill of Tara," Alaric said. "My favorite place in all of Ireland."
Grey laughed, the wind whipping her hair. "Show-off."
Alaric smiled softly.
"I have never been here before, but I have heard the stories," she breathed, staring at the mesmerizing site of the most famous Waygate of all. It went by many names, but 'Cathair Crofhind' it was named, in the Old Tongue. Her favourite title for this otherworldly place - ''Twas not amiss', it meant. Ah, yes the ancients certainly had a sense for the poetic. Beautiful.
She turned to face him.
"Why bring me here?"
His eyes darkened briefly like a cloud passing over the sun, before an impish smile lit his features.
"Because it's beautiful. Because it's far from home. And because there are no coffee shops in the immediate vicinity, so you'd best be learning the shift quickly if you'll be wanting your daily dose of the black stuff."
The absolute nerve of this man! The sheer bloody-minded audacity!
Well, she definitely wasn't going to let that just go without a fight.
She tried. And failed.
On her first attempt, she blinked and ended up upside-down in a tree, bark in her hair.
Her second attempt dropped her into a shallow riverbed which immediately soaked her to the skin.
Alaric's soft snickering in the background made her seethe with embarrassment as she squeezed small aquatic lifeforms from her hem. Sheer indignation (and perhaps a touch of magic) took care of the residual dampness clinging to her dress.
She wanted him to be proud. Not just pleased, but dazzled. Grey could already imagine the praise in his voice, the rare softness in his eyes when he was impressed. And oh, how she wanted to impress him. To see that flash of approval he rarely gave, to feel it settle around her like like an embrace. A part of her—one she refused to name—ached for it.
Finally, Grey grit her teeth, focused on the memory of Alaric's smile—and stepped.
The world folded like paper.
She landed, slightly unsteady, beside Alaric atop the hill again.
Alaric whooped, catching her. "You did it!"
Grey was breathless, giddy. "That was incredible."
"You're incredible," Alaric murmured, a tiny crease forming in his brow.
"How did you do that, mo chridhe?"
She looked at him in confusion. "Do what exactly?"
Alaric looked at her searchingly.
"Veilshifting requires a fixed anchor point in the landscape," he said slowly. "Something for your magic to remember. We are standing in an open field, with nothing to fix on. Most choose mountains. Stone circles. Rivers. Although most choose the riverbank," He couldn't help smirk.
"I didn't choose any of those," Grey said. "I… I don't know. I just… saw your face. And then I was here."
For a heartbeat, Alaric said nothing.
Then he gave her a look of startled pride, tinged with something warmer. "You anchored to me."
She blinked. "Is that… bad?"
"It's unheard of," he said, voice low. "And brilliant."
They stood together at the edge of the Veil, watching the sun bathe Teamhair in a golden sunset that set the sky aflame before turning towards home.