Harrower's Hall,Sanctuary (A few days later)
Grey opened the door to her bedroom with every intention of making it to breakfast unnoticed. The Huntsman's presence had disrupted her carefully curated routine, and she was simply not having any of it, avoiding him like a particularly nasty smell whenever she could. He has just settled right in and made himself at home, because, of course he would.
The corridor was cool and dim, lit by slanted summer light filtering through ivy-strangled windows. She was halfway down the hall, still tugging the sleeves of her jumper down over her wrists, when the bathroom door opened—and the world tilted sideways.
What she did not expect—what no sane universe should have allowed—was Alaric Fen, recently showered, water still trailing down his back, standing in the bathroom doorway wrapped in nothing but a dark green towel.
He didn't even flinch when he saw her.
He strolled out barefoot, steam curling around him like a lover's hand. His long hair was shiny wet and unbound, dripping slowly down the curve of his bare back. A towel—small, very, very small—hung precariously low on his hips, barely respectable and clearly unconcerned with the concept of modesty.
Grey skidded to a halt like she'd walked into an invisible wall, affronted by the sheer audacity of the sight before her. How could someone who'd been a grief-stricken ghost mere days earlier now stride through steam like he owned it, as if the weight of the past century had slipped from his shoulders the moment a towel met his hips? She didn't understand it—and that only made her angrier.
He looked up. And grinned like the sun breaking through the clouds.
"Morning, pet," he purred, stretching with shameless, sinuous grace. Muscle moved like water beneath pale silken skin. He knew exactly what he looked like, the absolute bastard. "Lovely day for a storm."
Her emotional state ran the entire gamut before settling on outrage. "You're naked!"
Alaric watched her face undergo several colour changes in under 3 seconds in abject fascination. He blinked. Then tilted his head. "Not technically. The towel counts. It's doing its job admirably."
Grey found herself half-turning away but not leaving, why wasn't she leaving?
"This is a public hallway, not a sauna. Put on some damn clothes before the books develop a complex."
Alaric was clearly enjoying the situation tremendously.
"You're the one making it weird, pet. I bathed. I'm clean. You should be thrilled. Yesterday you called me 'a mossy curse in leather pants.' Progress, surely?"
"Progress would be you discovering shirts!" She was almost screeching now.
"Ah, but then I wouldn't get to see you pretending not to look."
Her head snapped toward him, scandalised. How very dare he!
"I am not—!"
He raised both hands in surrender—towel remaining miraculously intact.
"My mistake. Must've been the way your voice went up an octave. Or the fact that you're still here."
Grey made a sound that could not be classed as human speech and spun on her heel so fast she nearly collided with a suit of armour.
Behind her, Alaric's voice lilted like velvet over ice. "You know, you're not technically supposed to run from beauty. It's very discouraging."
"Shut it, Fen, you're definitely not my type!" she snapped, whirling around to face him with an imperious glare sharp enough to cut thread. "Honestly, do you ever wear a shirt? Or is modesty beneath that absurd ego of yours?"
Oh gods, she thought, ears burning. I'm going to die in this hallway. Wickham will carve it into the bloody stone.
She tried to compose herself as she fled down the hall, his soft laughter ringing in her ears. Breathe in. Breathe out. The door to the dining hall loomed ahead like a sanctuary. She walked stiffly toward it, focusing intently on the flagstones.
"Good morning, darling," Wickham said from inside, just as Grey entered.
Grey made a strangled noise that may have started life as "hello," but exited somewhere in the region of panic-choked whimper. Wickham arched an eyebrow, chewing a piece of toast with exaggerated nonchalance. "You look like someone just hit you with a relic. Everything alright, my love?"
Grey blinked. "I—what? Yes. Fine."
Wickham leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes sparkling. "Was it a Fae relic by any chance?"
"No!"
"Oh, darling—it was. Wasn't it." He smirked. "What was it this time? A poetic compliment? Shirtless sword practice? Unnecessarily sensual tea-pouring?"
Grey muttered something about towels and war crimes and collapsed into a chair.
Wickham dissolved in laughter, clearly delighted.
From the doorway, Alaric entered fully clothed—mercifully, depending on your point of view—in black trousers, leather boots, and a white shirt open at the throat. He sauntered over like the room owed him rent and dropped into a seat with the lazy grace of someone who'd ruled empires.
"Greylene," he said smoothly, "your blush matches the roses in the chapel garden. Quite the tribute."
Grey stubbornly refused to acknowledge him in any way and stared at her porridge like it was going to save her. It didn't.
Maerlowe, who had arrived silently as always, set down a thick volume on the table and cleared his throat mildly. "Enough. There are better uses for heat than public mortification."
Wickham sighed theatrically. "Ah yes, but where's the fun in that?"
Maerlowe ignored him. "I've reviewed the readings from the shrine we found. The threads we disturbed—there's a residual current. It's old, but it's waking."
Grey lifted her head. "You think it's spreading?"
"I think," Maerlowe said, tapping the spine of the book, "that something wants to be found. There's another site. Avebury. Glamour failure reported. I'd like you to investigate."
Alaric stretched his legs out under the table and offered a lazy smile. "Road trip, then. Bags packed, curses optional."
They left within the hour.
Wickham lent them his old Land Rover, which grumbled and shuddered like it disapproved of being disturbed. Alaric insisted on driving. Grey, perhaps foolishly, agreed.
"You're sure you know how to—"
"I was chariot-racing before your species invented shoes, pet."
That shut her up.
Alaric drove like he'd invented the wheel and had regretted it ever since. Every turn was an opportunity to test physics. Every pothole, a suggestion. Grey clung to the handle above her seat and contemplated mortality and the advantages of modern public transport .
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Alaric asked cheerfully.
"No." She said viciously.
"Wonderful."
The drive passed in bursts—fields rolling by in green-gold waves, mist clinging low in the hedgerows. Rain threatened on the horizon, the clouds building like dark foam. Somewhere along the way, the silence softened. Grey relaxed into the hum of the engine, the soft thrum of tyres, the occasional muttered curse when the radio crackled with static.
They reached the circle just as the sky broke open. Avebury stood in eerie quiet—no tourists today. The standing stones loomed grey and monolithic, slicked with rain. The grass around them hissed with wind and water. They crested the ridge just before dusk, lantern light catching on frost-laced stone.
Grey stepped out into it, breath catching. Alaric joined her without a word, boots squelching slightly in the mud. He raised a hand, and for a moment, the air shifted—like a curtain stirring on a stage.
A glamour cracked. Just for a second. Enough to see it: a pale shimmer of light draining downward, pulled like thread into something unseen below the earth.
Grey slowed. Something felt wrong—not loud, not violent. Just… pulled. As if the wind had a direction it shouldn't.
Alaric's face went still. "The soulwell's bleeding."
He was already moving ahead, cloak snapping in the wind, eyes sharp and utterly humourless. None of the smirking arrogance now. No cryptic metaphors or flirtatious side comments. Just that razor-stillness he wore when the veil thinned and the world stopped pretending.
He crouched beside the well, fingertips hovering just above the edge. Energy shimmered faintly where he moved—like heat mirage over bone.
"Toward the Seelie?" Grey asked quietly.
Alaric nodded. "Always toward the Seelie. Same current pattern. Thread-thin, but steady."
Grey stepped forward, ignoring the rain slicking her sleeves. Her fingers hovered over the shimmer of pulled thread, then reached into the current with careful precision. She could see it now—like gossamer veins in the air, fraying at the edges, trembling toward collapse.
"That's three this week. They're supposed to release upward, into the Quiet where souls make their choice. Not directly feed the Seelie."
The siphon was old magic. Seelie-forged. A twisted glyph embedded in the rootwork beneath the stones, so faint it barely shimmered, draining soul-threads and stitching them toward a nexus she couldn't see.
She whispered a Harrower rite—an unbinding—and with a breath, the siphon snapped, the glamour around it shivering into smoke. Threads recoiled, shuddered, then steadied.
Grey placed her hands gently against the soulwell's edge and began to reweave. The thread of the land answered her, cautious but willing. With each pass of her fingers, the weave mended—no longer drained, but held. Balanced.
She exhaled. The shimmer dulled, then disappeared, leaving only the whisper of rain.
"It'll drain properly now," she said, straightening. Her voice was quiet, but sure. "No more siphon."
Alaric stared at her, something unreadable in his gaze. Then—softly, as if to himself—he said, "Threadborn indeed."
She glanced at him. "You always drop the charming act when the dead are in trouble, don't you?"
He paused a moment. Then: "The dead deserve honesty," he answered flatly.
Something in his tone made her breath catch. Like a chord struck deep in old wood. She hadn't realised how heavy the quiet could feel with all his masks removed.
"You've done this before. Not just watched—worked the aftermath. Haven't you?"
Alaric finally looked up. No smirk. No flash of teeth. Just those dark eyes, ancient and tired.
"I've stood over too many soulwells and found nothing left worth saving."
He stood close. Too close. Grey shivered. The wind had picked up. Rain ran down her collar, and she didn't move. Alaric reached out, intending to steer her away from the well. But his fingers lingered a moment too long on Grey's wrist and she practically yanked her hand back out of reach, bristling like a scalded cat.
"Hands off, Fen," she said, sharp but not unkind. Her tone wavered, irritation laced with something more fragile beneath it—confusion, maybe, or the echo of something she hadn't yet named. "You'll get yourself burned."
Aye, he thought, he might. She's warm, he noticed absently, and too close. And I should not—
His expression flickered. Something old, something familiar. It passed quickly, masked in a breath. He dropped his hand and looked away, pretending to examine the soulwell again.
"You'll catch cold, pet," he said lightly, voice slipping back into smooth deflection. "Can't have the Sanctuary's golden girl ruined by a bit of poetic weather."
Grey blinked at him, rain in her lashes. "I'm fine."
"Aye, well," Alaric said, already stepping away with a shrug that tried too hard to be casual, "you look like the beginning of a Shakespearian sonnet, and I refuse to be responsible for the rest."
Grey didn't move. The rain clung to her hair. Her jumper was soaked. She was flushed from more than just the cold. Sheer righteous indignation, of course. Alaric didn't look back. Not really.
"Come on," he said over his shoulder, voice a little too steady. "You've done what we came for."
But the tension didn't follow orders. It came with them—tight-laced, half-spoken, and utterly soaked through.