Grey jolted awake, gasping—her breath ragged and clawing as if she'd surfaced from drowning. Her sheets were soaked through, the cotton clinging cold and wet to her back. Her skin burned in sharp lines across her chest and forearms, the faint outline of sigils seared into her flesh like half-remembered glyphs. They pulsed faintly with silver light, flickering like an erratic heartbeat.
She tried to sit up but her limbs trembled, weak from whatever vision had seized her. Fragments remained—images of thrones torn from mountains, rivers running backwards, threads pulled tight to the point of snapping. Her breath hitched as a fresh burn flared across her ribs, the sigils deepening—silver filigree sinking into skin like molten ink, anchoring themselves into the very architecture of her magic. She could still hear it: a voice older than language whispering, "Balance demands blood."
Alaric burst into the room seconds later, his eyes wild with panic, jaw tight with fury barely leashed. The bond between them must have screamed in his bones. "Grey!" he called, voice hoarse with terror as he scanned the room and found her curled and shaking. The sight of her stopped him cold. For one breath, he stood frozen. Then his expression hardened, all that panic collapsing into purpose.
He strode to her in four long steps and dropped to his knees beside the bed, movements sharp and controlled. His eyes raked over her, searching for injuries, for answers. He reached out instinctively, then hesitated—his hand hovering just above her wrist, not quite daring to touch as his gaze traced the still-glowing marks etched into her skin.
"Greylene," he said, voice low—but tight, almost strangled, as if the words had to push past something jagged in his throat. His brows were drawn together, jaw locked in effort. He was trying to keep it together. To stay practical. But his breath still came fast, shallow with the ghost of panic.
He reached out again, this time letting his fingers barely graze the edge of the sigil burned into her collarbone. His touch was feather-light but carried all the intensity of a man on the verge of breaking. His eyes, bright with fury and fear, flicked to her face, holding.
"Greylene," he repeated, more grounded now—but only just. "Tell me what happened."
She tried to wave it off, sitting upright with rigid movements, her shoulders hunched as if bracing against something she couldn't name. Her tone came out too brittle to convince, brittle and hollow like frost-slick glass.
"Just dreams. I'm fine," she said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. Her eyes wouldn't meet his. They were wide, ringed with shadow, and strangely unfocused—as if she hadn't quite come all the way back from wherever she'd gone. The sigils still shimmered faintly across her skin, and her arms folded protectively across her torso as though to hide them. Her lips were drawn tight, her whole body wound like a bowstring—coiled, not in readiness, but in restraint.
His eyes flicked to hers. "You're shaking."
"I said I'm fine," she snapped, then winced. Her voice cracked. So did her mask.
Well done, Wyrde. Shouting at the one person who doesn't deserve it.
Her hands dropped into her lap. Her chest rose with a shaky breath, and she blinked hard, willing herself to be present, fighting for composure. A tightness pinched around her eyes, the same expression she wore when trying not to cry in front of witnesses. But there were no witnesses here. Only him.
She promptly burst into tears.
He sat beside her without another word, eyes wide with something close to helplessness. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, careful and steady. She leaned in—just slightly—her cheek brushing his collarbone. He shifted minutely to hold her closer, a small motion that said more than words. His hand moved in slow, grounding strokes against her back.
He didn't speak. Didn't press. Just held on while she cried herself hoarse, fury softening into quiet, aching devotion.
The Hall's library was thick with candle smoke and the rustle of parchment. Maerlowe was elbow-deep in a tome that looked like it had been unearthed from beneath a crypt. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, jaw tense with focus. Ever since Alaric had grabbed him by the collar and begged—quietly, urgently—for anything that might help, Maerlowe had barely left the library. Every flick of a page was a silent promise that he would not let this magic take her without a fight.
Wickham paced in jagged circuits, muttering under his breath like a man arguing with invisible librarians. He pulled books from shelves with frantic energy, flipping through them feverishly before discarding them in growing piles. His gestures were too quick, too sharp—more like someone trying to outrun dread than conducting proper research. At one point, he yanked down three tomes at once, scattering dust and muttering, "Too old, too vague, too sanctimonious," before storming off to the next shelf.
the panic in his gaze only settled somewhat when Kamara entered carrying a single slim volume—white leather, Seelie in origin. She placed it down with reverence.
"Cross-referenced rituals of balance," she said. "This is the oldest I could find. The Rite of Weal and Wound is older than the Courts."
Wickham peered over her shoulder. "Charming name. What's the death toll?"
Maerlowe didn't look up. "Of those who invoked it? Only two survived it intact. One became a living myth. The other went mad."
Grey stood stiffly by the hearth, the firelight casting her sigil-marks in ghostly patterns. "I'm not them," she said quietly.
Not yet, she added inwardly, with the grim humour of someone who'd once sworn she'd never take responsibility for anything larger than tea inventory. But here she stood, scorched by fate and riddled with ancient magic, pretending not to shake when the fire crackled too loudly.
Kamara's eyes lingered on her for a long moment. Wickham muttered, "Let's hope that's a good thing, darling."
Maerlowe turned fully now. "Are you sure you know what you've invoked?"
Grey hesitated—just long enough. "Yes."
Alaric didn't speak, but his jaw tightened, and he turned slightly away, hiding the shift in his expression. His eyes flicked back to her face, searching for some assurance, some certainty that this wasn't costing her more than she let on. But whatever he saw there made his throat work once before he nodded, just barely. The nod of someone preparing for a storm.
The Convocation chamber thrummed with restrained chaos. Each faction had sent a representative, and none of them looked pleased. Grey stood at the head of the hall, flanked by Alaric and Maerlowe. Kamara sat slightly behind, quill poised taking meeting notes. Wickham leaned against the wall near the windows, arms crossed and unreadable, eyes constantly seeking her out.
Before anyone could speak, a courier stepped through the secondary entrance, breathless and pale. He handed a sealed message directly to Kamara, who opened it swiftly and read in silence.
Her face drained of colour.
"There's been another message—ciphered in mirror-script," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Addressed directly to Alaric. No sender's mark, but the cipher is Caderyn's. It matches the death mark on the envoy from Willowmere."
Alaric's shoulders stiffened. His expression closed like a slammed door.
"He's not just trying to destabilise the alliance," Kamara added grimly. "He's trying to break you."
The room shifted palpably as all eyes turned to Alaric. His jaw was set, unreadable.
Tensions boiled fast.
"You've cursed us all!" snapped Lord Thalen of the Emberstrand. "You bring us a broken oath and a doomed general!" He pointed at Alaric. "He's a Seelie weapon! This whole union is a liability!"
Grey felt her hands tremble and fought to steady them. Her voice was tight when she replied. "Then step into the firing line yourself, Lord Thalen. See how long you last without him."
Politicians, she thought bitterly. Give them a storm, and they'll argue over who gets the driest cloak. Self-serving cowards dressed in robes of diplomacy—the same in every age and every kingdom.
Before more words could fly, the door slammed open. A young scout stumbled in, dirt-smeared and wide-eyed.
Grey's stomach dropped.
Honestly, how much more drama could you squeeze into one sitting? she thought grimly, resisting the urge to laugh or scream or possibly both.
"A device was found in your quarters, Lady Wyrde. Enchanted, precise. Laced with Seelie wards. Aimed for Lord Fen—but if you'd been there..."
Grey didn't need her to finish. Silence gripped the room.
Alaric's fists clenched. He knew better than to deny the accusation outright—better to stand still and give the impression of a blade poised, not a cornered beast. His shoulders squared, breath steadying as he kept his gaze cool, unreadable. But Grey saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers trembled with the effort of control.
Maerlowe stood up so quickly his chair scraped backward.
The factions erupted into shouts. Accusations. Demands. Fear turned quickly to suspicion.
Grey closed her eyes. Her skin still ached with burning sigils.
And somewhere deep in her head, she could hear Caderyn's delighted laughter, sneering:
This is only the beginning.