The morning mist coiled thick as wool around the stone courtyard of the Harrower's Hall, muffling footsteps and dulling the clang of bridles. Grey stood at the edge of the gathering, her cloak clasped but open at the throat, the first chill wind of the borderlands whispering past. Her outfit underneath was simple, yet stylish—a flowing white silk blouse so fine it seemed almost translucent paired with dark tailored jeans.
Wickham stood beside her with a travel pack that jingled suspiciously, adjusting the collar of his embroidered jacket like a man preparing to charm a kingdom or commit treason. Possibly both.
Alaric had opted for soft black leather pants and a grey cashmere turtleneck. He looked like he was on his way to Starbucks, not a meeting of ancient factions.
Maerlowe approached with his usual scholarly poise. A pocket watch gleamed faintly at his hip, and the ink stains on his cuffs were the only sign he had slept at all. He handed Grey a wax-sealed satchel.
"Decrees of safe conduct," he said. "If the factions of Ashmere still hold to the old accords, these should see us treated as guests, not targets."
"Ready?" Alaric asked Grey, low-voiced.
Grey, still staring at those very snug leather pants, swallowed once and nodded, though her stomach writhed. "As I'll ever be."
Alaric smirked and grabbed her hand.
They passed through the Veilgate in single file, mist curling like fingers in farewell. Beyond lay Ashmere—a borderland forgotten by history but not by memory. The sky dimmed, and even sound seemed cautious.
Ashmere unfolded in grey stone and wind-carved monoliths, sacred ground once kept neutral by the might of forgotten treaties. The braziers that ringed the Convocation Field still burned with cold flame.
The Thorncairn Knighthood arrived first. Their armor bore no polish, only the dignified wear of ancient battles, crests etched into every surface. They moved with pride and suspicion, their leader bowing with deliberate stiffness.
Next came the Lake Court, clad in watery colours—tall, veiled figures whose expressions were hidden behind star-painted masks. They made no sound until they did, and then their voices came as one: "We see you, Greylene Wyrde."
"She's not the only weird one around here," Wickham muttered.
Lastly, the Hollow Antlers. Horned spirits half-draped in moss and lichen, their amber-glass eyes patient and watchful. They said nothing. But they bowed.
The council ring was ancient—twelve stones, one for each faction of the first accords. Only half were filled.
Maerlowe began the talks. "This isn't a call to arms. It's a call to memory. To restore the Veil. To defend what balance remains."
Grey addressed them in earnest, her voice steadier than she felt. "I didn't come to rule," she said, looking each emissary in the eye. "Only to restore what was broken. To keep what remains from being lost. But I know words alone won't earn your trust. I know what you've seen—what you've endured. I know the Courts have failed you. I don't ask for loyalty. Only that you let me stand beside you. That you let me help mend what still can be saved. If you lend me your voices, your strength—we may yet shape something worth keeping from the ruin left behind."
Some nodded. Others did not.
The Hollow Antlers murmured agreement. The Sisters chanted a warning: "One flame rekindles many. But it burns as well."
A Thorncairn knight rose. "You are too young. Too uncertain. We know nothing of you except rumour and prophecy."
Grey looked at him evenly. "Then listen. See what I do. Decide after."
It was then that an aged Ashmere steward, hunched and muttering half to himself, passed Wickham a folded parchment under the guise of adjusting a wine flagon. The trickster's hand caught the shift like a card from a well-worn deck. He unfolded it beneath the table, careful to shield the contents from prying eyes. As he read, the colour drained from his face, his usual smirk replaced by something tight and calculating.
He waited until debate resumed before sauntering forward. "Apologies for the interruption, but I feel compelled to share a theatrical monologue about betrayal. With props."
He dropped the parchment onto the table. The room froze. It bore the cipher seal of the Seelie King.
Maerlowe picked it up, read, then grimaced. "Someone here means to inform Caderyn. Names are not listed. But they will be."
Grey stood slowly, the long folds of her cloak whispering like falling ash. Her voice came quiet—but it struck the air like a blade drawn in silence.
"I am not your queen," she said, and the flames in the council ring guttered low. Her eyes—once gentle, unsure—now glinted with stormlight, a cold gleam of something ancient stirring. "But I am your reckoning."
The Veil itself seemed to tremble around her, threadlight curling faintly across her fingertips, bleeding into the stone beneath her feet. The gathered emissaries felt it then—power not claimed, but earned. Not loud, but inevitable.
Her gaze locked on the assembled emissaries, one by one, until the weight of it made some glance away.
"If you came here to sabotage peace," she said, voice low and laced with unspoken threads of warning, "you will not leave the way you entered."
A hush fell. Alaric, in the shadows behind her, watched the way the light caught on the silver in Grey's hair. He was still. But something in his expression turned molten—pride, desire, danger, all tangled like stormwinds waiting for permission to strike.
The gathered emissaries stood very still. One of the Thorncairn knights had gone pale beneath his helm. One of the Lake Court ladies tilted her mask ever so slightly, as if re-evaluating the future she'd just glimpsed. The Hollow Antlers did not move at all, but a low, reverent chime echoed from one of their bone horns.
That ended the argument.
Under a moonlit sky, one by one, the factions placed tokens into the fire bowl at the center of the ring. A broken antler, a braided star-thread, a steel thorn.
"These are not pledges of war," said Maerlowe. "They are pledges to remember. And to act when the time comes."
Alaric touched Grey's shoulder, his hand warm and sure, fingers curling just briefly over the edge of her collarbone. "They're following because you mean it," he said, voice low and edged with something softer. Then, with a glance at the emissaries and a crooked grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, he added, "Not because you scared the antlers off their horns. Though gods, that was very, very attractive."
Grey blushed furiously.
He straightened, the grin softening to something more serious. "But listen, mo chridhe. They won't follow fear for long. Not the kind of allies we want. That kind of power burns fast, and they'll forget why they stood beside you to begin with."
Grey didn't answer right away. She was watching him—not the sharp lines of his jaw or the teasing tilt of his mouth, but the weight behind his words. This was not flattery. It was hard-won wisdom, chipped from centuries of war and loss and choosing the wrong path before finding the right one.
She realised then, with a quiet ripple of awe, that she had at her side an advisor who had seen kingdoms rise and fall, who knew the rhythms of battle and betrayal like a second language. Not just a protector or a lover, but a strategist forged in endless winter. She had no crown, no throne—but she had him.
And that was enough.
Grey didn't reply, simply reached up to place her hand over Alaric's to squeeze gently in acknowledgement. But she looked more like a leader than she ever had before.
As they turned to leave, the air grew heavy. The braziers dimmed to embers. Then a figure stepped into the clearing, as though drawn from the tide itself.
She was robed in pale sea-silk, her face half-veiled beneath a mantle of driftglass. Her presence was not loud—but it resonated, like a distant song remembered from a dream.
Her hair flowed like kelp caught in current, flowing like ink in water, bound at the crown with a coronet of shell and salt-rusted chain. Her skin held the shimmer of light on water just before a storm. At her hip hung a voice vessel, carved from memory coral and humming faintly against the silence.
Maerlowe's breath caught. "The Chorus Beneath does not leave the Vault."
The figure inclined her head, graceful as tide.
"We do not seek dominion. But we remember what others forget—grief rewritten, sorrow distorted, the sanctity of silence stolen. Our voices were forged not to sway mortals, but to guard the thread between death and peace. That thread is fraying. And now, we rise."
Her voice deepened—not louder, but layered, as if a dozen sirens whispered behind her words.
"The Convocation hesitates. The courts maneuver. But we have heard the song Caderyn sings. And it is not his to use."
The gathering fell still. Even the Hollow Antlers bowed their heads.
Grey stepped forward, throat tight, her skin prickling as Thalassa's voice lingered in the air like the memory of touch. Every syllable seemed to hum beneath her ribs, a song not meant for her ears and yet unmistakably felt. Around the circle, the male delegates stood silent and transfixed, their gazes glassy, faces slack with reverence or awe. "Then stand with us," Grey said, steadier than she felt.
Thalassa's reply was simple, sung on a single, aching note:
"We already are."
Folio of Threads, Entry 3.11.4 — The Chorus Beneath
Filed under: Convocation Orders, Siren Doctrine
"Silence is not absence. It is where sound goes to remember."
The Chorus Beneath, also called the Sisters of Iskar, are a siren order tasked with preserving grief, memory, and ceremonial silence. They speak rarely, sing less, and when they do—it is law.
Their voices are stored in grown vessels, each bound by name and loss. A single harmonic utterance can seal a soulgate or sever a tethered thread.
Members wear driftglass masks and communicate in tonal chorus. They do not age, and they do not forgive.
Admission requires drowning—literal or otherwise.
Known deviation: Thalassa Vael. Left the Vault with a sanctioned vessel and voice, pursuing a theft the Convocation has yet to publicly acknowledge.
Harmonic Law forbids replication or theft of siren vessels. Breach may result in disintegration or rebuke by song.