Morning light filtered weakly through the high, narrow windows of the Vale of Crossings, painting thin, pale streaks across the stone floor. Grey stood rigidly beside the broad council table, fingers gripping the back of her chair until her knuckles whitened. The room buzzed with quiet tension, voices murmuring, exchanging glances heavy with disbelief.
Maerlowe stepped inside, a slip of parchment clutched tightly in his trembling hand. It arrived by raven at dawn and he was still struggling to process its contents. His face was pale, eyes wide with barely-contained dread.
"What news?" Grey asked, her voice strained but calm.
"The safehouse at Willowmere," Maerlowe whispered, his voice breaking. "Gone. Burned to ashes. Only a handful of survivors."
Grey's face went ashen.
"Who?" Alaric demanded sharply, stepping closer, his eyes burned fierce and clear.
"Seelie assassins," Maerlowe replied, his voice thick with horror. "Masked in blinding light. They left no doubt about their allegiance."
Grey's expression shifted quickly—a fleeting look of shock, her eyes widening and lips parting slightly as she absorbed the news. Her breath hitched subtly, shoulders tensing visibly, fingers trembling minutely as reverent grief shadowed her face. Then, slowly, her features settled into stark, grim determination, her jaw tightening resolutely as she straightened her posture, eyes hardening with unwavering resolve. "What of the wards?"
Maerlowe hesitated, dread hollowing his voice. "Broken. The sigil protecting Willowmere was shattered completely. We thought it unbreakable—"
"Nothing is unbreakable," Alaric muttered bitterly, turning away. "We were fools to think otherwise."
She reached out, gently touching Alaric's arm. "We must warn the others immediately. Every faction, every ally. Send envoys now."
She moved swiftly, scribbling quick messages, sealing each parchment with a careful urgency and a single silver thread. As each envoy departed, tension seemed to ease slightly until a sudden, violent burst of magical energy rippled through the air. Grey's head snapped up.
A cry of pain echoed from outside the chamber, cut brutally short.
Alaric surged forward, Grey at his heels. In the corridor lay a young envoy, a slight figure barely past her teens, dressed in the traditional messenger garb of the Sisters of Iskar—deep blue robes embroidered with silver runes that now flickered erratically, faintly glowing where threads had unraveled from the magical blast.
The girl's auburn hair spilled across the cold stone, partly obscuring a pale, delicate face marred by deep scorch marks that traced an intricate, malicious pattern across her skin. Grey knelt beside her, trembling fingers brushing the girl's blackened cheek, horror and sorrow tightening her throat.
Alaric crouched down beside them, his fingers brushing gently over the edges of the burn marks, his eyes narrowing. He froze suddenly, recognition washing over him with quiet horror.
"A cipher," Alaric murmured bitterly, cursing. "Caderyn's own. Once, it carried messages only he and I would understand. Now, he uses it to taunt me through death."
"A trap," Alaric growled, voice taut with controlled fury. "Meant for me."
Grey's eyes flashed to Alaric, her expression a storm of fear and fierce protectiveness. "He is targeting you."
Alaric stepped back sharply, his face suddenly distant. "I shouldn't be here, Greylene. My presence puts everyone at risk."
Her heart froze the moment he used her name instead of the Gaelic endearment she had come to treasure so dearly. She swallowed around the dread threatening to choke her.
"No," Grey said quietly, rising to face him directly, her voice unwavering. "Your absence would destroy us more surely than any spell."
He turned away, unable to hold her gaze, shadows deepening around his eyes. "You don't understand how cruel Caderyn can be. He used an innocent's life carelessly—just to send a message. He'll not stop until everything I care about is destroyed."
"I understand perfectly," Grey countered gently, stepping closer. She touched his shoulder, willing him to look at her. "You think you must protect me from yourself, but we need you. I need you."
Alaric swallowed hard, his eyes briefly flickering with an expression she had never seen in their depths - fear. "I—"
"Enough secrets," Grey whispered fiercely, her voice rising with defiance. Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides, shoulders squaring as she faced Alaric directly. "This is precisely Caderyn's game—to sow chaos, drive us apart, and weaken us from within. We cannot fall for such an obvious ploy. We stand together, Alaric. No more hiding, no more withdrawing. The Convocation must know everything."
She stepped back into the chamber, drawing herself up to her full height, determination blazing in her eyes. "Summon them all. It's time to call a full session."
Wickham, who had been perched with one boot on a window ledge and the other on a chair back, immediately scrambled upright and began rifling through a stack of parchment with theatrical flair. "Right then, darlings—black seal or red? Or shall we be dramatic and use both?" he chirped brightly, already halfway out the door. "Nothing like a little blood-and-ink urgency to get the factions trembling."
He flashed Grey a grin—half mischief, half deference—and added over his shoulder, "Would it kill you to wear something a tad more terrifying than a sundress, darling? The drama of it all—it gives me chills."
"Get lost, Wick!" She scoffed fondly. He had the most infuriating way of endearing himself to her in even the most dire situation.
Hours later, the great hall was packed with tense, wary faces.
Grey had chosen to dress with great care, for a change. Wick might have been jesting, but the man had a point.
She stood before them, radiant and unyielding, dressed in a tailored dress of deep obsidian silk that clung with dignified precision to every curve, its severe cut an armor of elegance and intent. Her hair was intricately braided into a crown-like coil, interwoven with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
Her presence was fierce and commanding—every bit the queen she kept insisting she was not. She did not flinch beneath the gathered scrutiny. Instead, she met it head-on, chin lifted, eyes glinting with steel. Beside her, Alaric stood as if braced against the tide, his gaze fixed not on the crowd but on her, burning with silent, possessive pride.
With the pleasantries observed, she detailed the dangers in clear, unflinching terms, her voice low but steady as she addressed every faction in turn. When one elder from the Emberstrand accused Alaric of being a liability, Grey raised her chin a fraction and replied, "If you would rather cast out the blade that shields you, then I suggest you stand in its place," Her voice like flint.
Murmurs stirred, but no one answered. She pressed forward, revealing Alaric's connection, the ciphered magic, and the threat Caderyn posed not just to her, but to all of them. "He wants our alliance fractured. Our trust eroded. I won't give him the satisfaction."
Her unwavering confidence anchored the room, her steady gaze meeting every doubtful eye, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as though she held the weight of their futures within her grip.
Slowly, the room quieted, uncertainty giving way to a tenuous calm. In that silence, unity was not declared—but it was felt. A quiet tapestry of trust, woven in the space between her words and their unspoken fears.
Just as she finished speaking, heavy doors swung wide, slamming against stone with a resounding crash. Silence fell sharply as every eye turned toward the unexpected visitor.
In strode the Queen of Thorns; Yvaine, an Unseelie warlord shrouded in legend and older still in rumor. Her entrance was soundless despite the heavy sweep of her boots, her presence stealing the warmth from the chamber like dusk swallowing day. Her armor gleamed with an otherworldly sheen, forged black as jet and veined with silver thorns, roses of wrought iron blooming across her pauldrons and breastplate.
A long cloak of dusk-hued velvet trailed behind her, stitched with sigils no living soul could read. Beneath the jagged, regal weight of a crown of iron thorns, her eyes glinted with unreadable sharpness—equal parts ancient sorrow and sharpened intent. The air around her seemed to bend, unwilling to touch her.
She strode directly up to the Council, ignoring all but one.
"Greylene Wyrde," she intoned, her voice resonant and powerful, cutting through the shocked silence. "I come offering my sword and my strength."
Her gaze swept the chamber, and fell at last on Alaric, recognition flaring briefly. There was the glint of grim approval in her eyes as she looked upon the Convocation for the first time in years.
Her address was direct. "I waited to see if your council still had teeth, or if you'd all gone soft and ceremonial. Seems there's some steel left in your spines after all."
Grey met her gaze evenly, feeling the heavy price beneath the queen's words. "At what cost?"
Yvaine smiled thinly, an edge of ruthless elegance. "Invoke the rite of Weal and Wound. Swear to restore the balance—or fall by our blades if you fail."
Grey's breath stilled. She felt Alaric's gaze upon her, intense, pained. She could feel his quiet desperation through the Bond, willing her to say no. The intensity of it made her waver for a breath... but she held her ground, a deep certainty steadying her voice.
"So be it. I accept."
The room erupted into murmurs, disbelief cascading through the ranks. Grey held firm, eyes meeting Alaric's, his quiet devastation mirrored by her own resolve.
The stakes had risen again, the path ahead narrow and treacherous, but she would walk it without faltering.
For Alaric.
For them all.
END OF ACT II