SAMHAIN
Southbank, London — The Jubilee Market at night
Maerlowe had sent them. A Harrower field report had flagged unusual magical convergence in the area—threads of old Fae magic tangled with mortal ritual. The report hinted that an informant might have surfaced here, someone with knowledge too precise to ignore. So they'd followed the tip, half-expecting a dead end or a trap. But Maerlowe had insisted, and his instincts rarely misfired. Even Wickham had said, "If the old buzzard thinks there's something worth sniffing, best bring a long leash and a sharp knife."
They took the late train because Grey still stubbornly refused whatever alternative Alaric had in mind.
"You know," Alaric drawled as they boarded, "there are faster, more refined methods of transport. Ones that don't smell like despair and day-old crisps."
Grey stepped past him without pause. "You mean veil gates that smell like scorched thyme and give you nosebleeds? Pass."
"You're being dramatic."
"You once arrived upside-down in a hedge."
"That hedge attacked me."
She gave him a look. "You screamed."
"It was a strategic vocalisation."
"It was a yelp, Fen. A full-on yelp."
He sniffed. "I'll have you know it was very dignified."
"Like a wet cat falling off a bookshelf."
He grinned in triumph. "Ah, so you were watching."
"Only because the hedge put in a formal complaint about your screeching."
Grey sat by the window, watching the city lights give way to industrial shadows and fading suburbs. Rain clawed gently at the glass in uneven threads. Alaric lounged opposite, boots on the seat, arms folded, a picture of brooding elegance. Grey tried not to notice how good he looked in those jeans—the way he poured into the denim.
She blamed the lighting. And the wine from last night. And her obviously defective instincts.
"We're not going to curse anyone this time, are we?" Grey asked morosely.
"Not unless they start it," Alaric said without looking up. "Or unless I'm bored." His teeth flashed.
Grey exhaled slowly. "That's reassuring," she muttered under her breath.
The train hissed into Waterloo with a sigh of steel and steam. Grey stepped off first, blinking against the sodium lights. Southbank pulsed around them—food stalls still steaming in the misty dark, buskers coaxing melancholy jazz from weather-warped saxophones, tourists laughing beneath umbrellas.
They walked briskly, the river to their right, past the looming curve of the London Eye and under the skeletal struts of the Golden Jubilee Bridge. Rain ticked gently off wrought iron railings. Past Gabriel's Wharf, where fairy lights still flickered in the gloom, and into the hush of lower-lit lanes behind the BFI.
Alaric led them off the main road, through puddles that caught fragments of neon, and down a narrow alley framed by peeling posters and graffiti written in at least three human languages and one that shimmered when you tried to read it.
Grey shot him a sidelong glance. "You know, most girls are taught not to follow strange men down alleys."
"And yet here you are," he said without breaking stride.
"Well, you did promise me supernatural market capitalism and danger. I'm a sucker for themes."
"Noted. I'll be sure to include 'mild peril' on the next itinerary."
"Add free snacks, and you've got yourself a deal, Fen." She grinned.
They reached the Jubilee Market entrance, framed by an old Victorian arch. Between two cast-iron pillars was a rusted maintenance door. Alaric reached into his coat, pulled out an ancient looking key attached to a chain on his belt, and slid it into the keyhole.
The air shimmered.
The door yawned open with a sigh like turning silk. Beyond it: shadowed staircases, heavy incense, and low chimes.
The true Night Market.
It was alive. Stalls leaned impossibly, stacked high with wares that glowed, blinked, whispered. Creatures in layered cloaks haggled in languages that made Grey's ears buzz and her molars ache. The scents were overwhelming—burnt cinnamon, ozone, something that smelled suspiciously like longing. A woman with antlers sold bottled storms. A boy with glowing eyes offered pocket-sized beasts in silver cages.
Grey's breath caught somewhere near her collarbone.
She felt like a paper boat being swept into a current of colour and sound—too fragile, too temporary. Her heart tripped over itself. She tried not to look too long at any one thing, afraid they might look back. Or worse—recognise her.
This was beyond folklore and theory. This was a fever dream that had written its own footnotes in her bones.
Oh good, she thought wryly. I'm either enchanted or having a very glamorous panic attack.
Alaric moved through it all like a native, his expression distant, controlled. He belonged here. That much was obvious. And the Market responded to him, parting subtly in his wake. Grey trailed behind, equal parts irritated and impressed. How was he this composed when she felt like a mortal pencil sketch in a painting made of gold leaf and madness?
She didn't like the way people looked at him. The males, like he was dangerous. The females, like he was theirs. And she especially didn't like the part of her that bristled at it—like some ancient, territorial instinct had clawed its way up through her ribs and was now gnashing its teeth behind her sternum.
They found her near a stall of dreaming moss: the Fae informant. She was tall, silver-haired, with eyes like river-silt and robes that shimmered like old starlight.
"You're taller than I remember," she said to Alaric.
"You're less dead than I assumed," he replied mildly.
Her laugh tinkled like silver glass.
"And you," she turned to Grey, studying her. "You're the Threadborn."
Grey blinked slowly, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I'm... still working out what that means," she said, then added silently, preferably before someone decides to tattoo it across my destiny like a warning label.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Aren't we all."
She spoke of the Seelie King's courtiers—Lady Maelwyn, who once served the Unseelie but had recently been seen under golden banners; Cadren Hollowbrook, a tactician whispered to be rewriting ancient pacts in private salons beneath Bath; and a changeling named Hal, who traded secrets like silver coins.
"They aren't just pledging allegiance," the Fae woman murmured, her voice like rustling reeds. "They're investing. Building futures in a kingdom that promises no end."
Grey exchanged a glance with Alaric.
"What do they gain?" Grey asked.
"Safety. Legacy. Relevance. The Seelie King offers them eternity in a world that forgets us."
She gave them maps—old parchment marked with enchantment-sensitive ink, revealing hidden gatherings and passage points. She warned them of upcoming convocations cloaked as art festivals and retreats.
"Watch the ones who smile too easily," she said. "And those who speak in absolutes."
Her expression softened as she turned to Grey.
"You were born of threads not even Caderyn controls," the Fae woman said, her voice quiet but resonant. "That will make you a prize or a threat. Perhaps both. Some will see only your rarity and wish to claim it. Others will see danger and seek to bind it. But the truth is—no one, not even he, can predict the pattern you will weave."
Then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow. Grey felt like she had even more questions now than when they arrived.
They wandered around, brushing past lantern-lit tents and vendors whispering spells in jars. When Grey's stomach gurgled audibly, Alaric gave a low laugh and, grabbing her elbow, expertly steered her to a food stall tucked behind a drapery of shimmering vines.
"You'll like this, pet." Alaric said, nodding to the vendor, who looked like a Minotaur who'd been pressed into a waistcoat. "Tell him you want the ash-grilled lamb with saffron petals. And the moonberry chutney."
Grey frowned. "That's oddly specific."
"It was my favourite for a decade or two. Before real saffron got expensive." Alaric smirked. "Now I only get it on special occasions."
The vendor handed over a paper-wrapped parcel steaming with sweet, smoky spices. Grey took one bite and her eyes rolled back blissfully. "That's... unfairly good." The flavours were dancing in her mouth conjuring images of faraway places where it never rained.
"Told you," Alaric said with a grin, popping something vaguely dumpling-shaped into his own mouth and chewing like a satisfied cat. He gestured toward the rest of the stall's offerings encouragingly—a spread of foods that shimmered faintly under conjured light.
Grey sampled skewered firefruit glazed in sugar-char and something resembling sesame brittle that crackled with laughter when bitten. A shimmer of delight slipped through her as it dissolved on her tongue and she burst into an involuntary giggle. They wandered from tent to tent, trying candied lotus root, moon-cured smoked eels, and crispy dreamroot fritters dusted with starlight salt. A small cart offered snowblossom ices that melted in kaleidoscope flavours; another had fried nightcap mushrooms served with pickled fern hearts on tiny golden spoons.
Grey's senses buzzed—flavour, texture, memory—and just a hint of enchantment. She wasn't sure if the warmth blossoming in her chest was the result of whatever faint fae glamour laced the food or the way Alaric's presence brushed so easily against hers, his shoulder occasionally bumping hers, his laughter easy and warm.
She was starting to feel slightly drunk—not on wine, but on everything. On taste and colour and the velvet hush of magical spaces. On how relaxed Alaric looked for the first time that evening, his grin lingering longer than usual. And maybe, just maybe, on the way he occasionally looked at her like she was the most fascinating thing in a place full of wonders.
She tried not to think about it too much, but she became slowly overwhelmed by her own senses.
They wandered some more. Later, a stallholder—half-goblin, half-fury, judging by the teeth—smirked at them over a table of bone dice. "Only those who trust each other dare the dance. Prove your pact."
""We're not a pact," Grey said quickly.
"Tell that to the prophecy," Alaric murmured, extending his hand.
"Tell that to your ego," she snapped back, but her voice lacked real bite.
He wiggled his fingers. "Come on. For show. For scandal. For the sheer pleasure of watching you pretend not to enjoy it."
Grey scowled. "You're lucky the Market frowns on violence."
"And yet, here you are. Not running. Not hexing. Curious."
"But not a pact," she repeated, even as her hand lifted.
The music came from nowhere—slow, lilting, strange.
Grey hesitated. Her eyes darted to the watching crowd, the stallholder's grin, the invisible press of the Market leaning in like an audience. "I don't dance," she mumbled, half to herself, half to the universe, which surely by now should have accepted that she had the coordination and grace of a winded pigeon. But the music was already winding around her ankles like mist, tugging at something deeper—some thrum in her chest that pulsed not with fear, but with the absurd, treacherous hope that maybe this moment was meant for her.
She looked at Alaric's hand, outstretched and unapologetic. Grey's fingers twitched. Was this a joke?A dare? A trap?
He tilted his head slightly, softening the moment as if reading her thoughts. "It's just a dance, pet. Nothing binding... unless you want it to be."
That didn't help! Grey reached out anyway, uncertain and stiff, and took the offered hand. His fingers closed around hers like they'd done it a thousand times before.
Their steps faltered at first. Then found rhythm. Grey muttered, "If I step on your foot, you're legally obligated not to gloat."
"I've been stepped on by worse things than you, pet" Alaric murmured.
"Charming," she replied, but her voice softened. "Still. No gloating."
The market pulsed around them, unaware or politely uninterested. Alaric's hand at her waist was steady. Warm. Comforting in a way she wasn't prepared for.
"You're not half bad at this," he said, his voice low.
"Maybe I just don't want to embarrass myself in front of someone who moves like a tragic ballet."
He chuckled. "Tragic?"
"You know. Elegant. Brooding. Probably hiding at least three personal vendettas."
"Only three? Oh if only you knew, pet."
Grey looked up at him then, meeting his gaze for a beat too long. "Don't tempt me. I've got a reputation for being difficult."
"That's the only reason I'm still here," he said, quieter now.
Neither of them smiled. But neither of them looked away.
On the return train, Grey leaned into the window, heart still beating too fast. The glow of the Market still clung to her skin like faint stardust, but beneath it, something uneasy twisted low in her stomach.
"What was that dance about?" she asked, voice quieter than she intended. "It felt like... it meant something. Did it?"
She hated how vulnerable the question sounded. Like she wasn't sure where the line was anymore—between performance and truth, between illusion and something far too real. Part of her wanted to rewind the night, to tuck the moment back into its velvet box before it could turn fragile in the light.
Alaric was quiet a long time. Then: "Because even illusions leave echoes, pet. That dance—it was a story the Market asked us to tell. And I didn't want our part in it to be silence."
He leaned his head back against the window. For a moment, his eyes looked every bit as ancient as he was. "One day, I might lose you. To time, or fate, or something crueler. But tonight, I wanted to remember what it was like to reach for something beautiful and have it reach back."
Grey stared out at the dark. She didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
Later, alone in his room in the Hall, Alaric sat in the half-light of a fading charm lantern. He still wore the scent of charcoal and dreamfruit, but it was her laughter that lingered most.
He exhaled, rubbed a hand down his face, then let it fall limply to his lap.
Ah Greylene. Your mortality should make you fragile. Untouchable. And yet—it pulls me. Like gravity. Invitable.
I don't understand it. Can't name it. But when you flush with pleasure after tasting something new—as if the world had shown you a kindness you hadn't expected—it does something to me. Hollows me out. Not in pain. In longing I swore I would never feel again.
His mouth quirked. Almost a smile.
I've walked through centuries of wonders. Survived betrayals that left scars even time won't smooth. Watched stars blink out and kingdoms rot. But your laugh—sharp, irreverent, unguarded—gods, it could undo me. Has undone me.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Tonight, you took my hand without armour. Danced with me, not as a Harrower. Not as some pawn in the game. Just as you. And I'll remember that.
I'll remember how beautiful you looked beneath those lanterns. How your smile reached your eyes for once. How you looked at me like maybe I wasn't just a monster with good boots.
He closed his eyes, leaned back.
Gods help me, Grey, I will remember.