Rain lashed against the tall arched windows of the Harrower's Hall, soft at first, then growing in insistence, as if the storm outside were pacing. The scent of peat smoke and old books curled through the corridors like incense, and in the vast, cathedral-like library, the lamps glowed like golden embers against the gloom. Grey stood on the mezzanine above the main shelves, fingers ghosting over the spines of books that whispered when touched.
Below, Maerlowe sat at a heavy oak table layered in scrolls and letters. Alaric lounged nearby in one of the armchairs, boots propped on the footstool, flipping through a Harrower codex written in ink that shimmered faintly with spell-salt. Wickham lay sprawled on cushions in front of the fire, flicking a ball of will-o'-wisp light between his fingers.
Despite the warmth, the atmosphere was thick with tension—the kind that built before a storm broke.
"Word from the western branch," Maerlowe said, peering over his spectacles. "A scholar in Wales has found something. An overgrown grove. Fire scars. Burned bindings from a ritual site long thought lost. The Grove of Ashen Threads."
Grey froze. Her hand hovered over a spine engraved with the word "Remembrance."
"That was real?" she asked.
Maerlowe gave a wry smile. "Everything's real until it isn't. Some myths just slumber."
Alaric sat forward, the indolence gone. "That place is cursed."
Wickham arched a brow. "Excellent. Likely very interesting, then."
Grey leaned on the railing, curious. "Why cursed?"
Alaric's expression darkened. "The Seelie purged it during the Dissolution. Centuries ago. Burned the grove. Slaughtered every last one of the mortals who kept it. I tried to save some of the portals. I was too late. That fire had teeth."
Wickham whistled. "Charming bedtime story."
"Not a story," Alaric said. "I watched them try to erase the belief." Grey looked at him searchingly.
He stood. Firelight licked his silhouette, catching the gold in his eyes.
"They descended at dawn. Seelie enforcers draped in the kind of righteousness only the deluded wear. They set fire to the grove while the Threadmother's faithful still knelt in prayer. I heard their screams. Saw the bindings ignite like dry tinder. The scent of burning threadwork—it never leaves you."
Grey descended slowly, each step more cautious than the last. The gravity in his voice wrapped around her like winter air. Her thoughts hummed. What must it cost him to remember like that?
"What were you doing there?" Wickham asked, unusually soft.
Alaric's jaw tightened. "Many of the Wild Hunt patrolled those woods. We called it 'faith'. The old kind. Some believed she would return."
He looked into the hearth, but his mind was elsewhere. "Mortals nearby didn't know everything. But they knew it mattered. They watched the land. Carried forward rituals they didn't quite understand. They died for it."
His hands curled into fists. "One of ours tried to protect a group of them. The Seelie called her a traitor. I barely got her out. We ran through bracken and ash while the trees screamed."
Grey reached the floor and stopped near the hearth, close but not crowding. Alaric wasn't someone you pushed. She knew that now. You gave him space. And when he offered the truth, you accepted it like a gift.
"If there are burned bindings," she said gently, "then something may have survived."
Alaric didn't look at her right away. But her voice, soft and certain, pulled at something in him. He looked at her for a long moment and the tension seemed to ease. His shoulders dropped an inch. He exhaled slowly.
"That was a long time ago, mo chridhe."
The change in atmosphere was palpable and immediate. Grey could swear she'd hear a pin drop.
Wickham blinked slowly, and a devilish grin spread across his features. "'My heart', now, is it?"
Grey blushed. Oh no. A quiet dread settled in the pit of her stomach.
Wickham clasped his hands behind his head. "Here you go, gallivanting off to the Highlands and return with poetry on your tongue? Was there a waterfall? A passionate embrace under a lightning-split sky?"
Grey looked away guiltily. Not far off.
"Wait," she said slowly, "what does it even mean?" A sinking feeling was settling in her gut.
"Only the most darling of romantic Gaelic endearments," Wickham intoned, palm over chest. "Reserved for lovers, songs, and now—apparently—you."
Maerlow, conspicuously silent, watched the tableau in mild fascination.
Alaric didn't deny it. His lips curled just slightly, a smug lift to his mouth and arrogant tilt to his chin that dared her to challenge him. One eyebrow arched with infuriating ease, like he was perfectly content to let the implication hang between them—half challenge, half confession.
Grey sat numbly, ears buzzing and heart fluttering in that maddening, uncertain way. Did he mean it? Or was it another one of his teases wrapped in centuries of charm? Either way, it stayed with her.
She narrowed her eyes at him, trying for withering but mostly managing flustered. "If you're going to keep calling me things I don't understand, you'd better be ready to explain yourself, Elder Relic."
Alaric tilted his head, entirely too pleased with himself. "It means what you think it means," he said, voice soft and maddeningly amused. "And if I've got to explain why I say it, then perhaps you haven't been paying attention, mo chridhe."
He gave her a look so arrogant it could've been bottled and sold as a cure for humility. "Besides," he added, "for someone who claims to be an expert at staying unnoticed, you're not exactly subtle when you blush so prettily. It's very distracting. Practically a confession."
Grey snorted, crossing her arms. "Distracting? You're the one who walks around looking like a tragic ballad and quoting poetry in two languages. Honestly, it's a miracle I get any thinking done at all."
"Ah," Alaric said, smirking. "So you admit I linger in your thoughts."
She glared at him, but the effect was ruined by the fact that her ears had turned a traitorous shade of pink. His grin only widened like he'd won a prize, wicked and satisfied.
Wickham looked visibly entertained, Maerlowe visibly horrified. But Wickham's mischief had done its work, softening the tension, which she quietly suspected had been by design. Job done, he excused himself and returned shortly from the pantry bearing ginger biscuits, seed cake, and cheese older than most grudges. As he set the tray down, he exchanged a look with Maerlowe—brows lifted in unspoken glee, while Maerlowe pinched the bridge of his nose like he'd just aged a decade in silence.
Tea was poured, conversation resumed.
Grey curled in an armchair, legs tucked beneath her. Trying to unscramble her thoughts—and the heat still clinging to her cheeks—she cleared her throat and turned deliberately back to the topic at hand. "Where exactly is this grove?" she asked.
Maerlowe retrieved a map. "Coed y Brenin Forest, near Dolgellau. Ancient woodland. Remote."
Alaric traced the mark. "There's a ring of blackened stones. Beneath them, things still hum."
"Delightful," Wickham said, munching. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow at first light," Maerlowe said. "We do this properly."
Grey insisted on going. She was tired, aching—but something stirred in her. Some need to see. To know.
Later that night, the Hall slept beneath the lull of thunder.
Grey crept barefoot through the corridor, drawn to Maerlowe's study. The door stood slightly ajar.
Inside, by the firelight, she spotted a letter.
The threadless child will bind what unravels—
A weave broken once by sacrifice, stitched again by devotion.
A lifeline, lost, drawn back through will and wonder.
Her breath caught. Her hand hovered above the page. Is this about me?
A floorboard creaked. Maerlowe stood in the doorway. "You weren't meant to read that," he said.
Grey turned, guilt tightening her throat. "I—I didn't mean to—"
He crossed the room slowly. "It would have found you eventually. They always do."
"Who are they?"
A pause.
"They go by many names. Their factions are many, and varied and you will no doubt have to engage with them soon. Some you may have already encountered… at the Night Market, perhaps?" He cocked a questioning eyebrow.
She nodded, taking his meaning when she remembered all the strange creatures she glimpsed there. He continued.
"When Caderyn came to us, asking to bind her, we believed it was mercy. That she'd grown unstable. Too many souls wandered."
Grey went cold. "But it wasn't mercy, was it?"
Maerlowe looked older than she'd ever seen him. "We chose survival over truth. I feared being forgotten. We all did."
He stepped to the hearth. Shadows played along the stone.
"We told ourselves it was duty. But really? We were afraid. Afraid to lose our place. Afraid to speak. And so we stood by and watched silently while they sealed her away."
Grey didn't speak. Couldn't.
Maerlowe's face clouded with guilt and something Grey couldn't quite place. Suddenly he looked like he wanted out of the conversation desperately, and turned to go, pausing in the doorway.
"Curiosity isn't a sin, Grey. You have the right to seek truth. But be warned. Truth won't protect you. Caderyn will use everything—memory, power, even Alaric. Especially Alaric," he said darkly.
She wondered what he meant but didn't press.
Later, she lay in bed, the words spinning. The Threadmother whispered her name in dreams. Thunder stirred the windows. And when she woke, tears clung to her cheeks.
The scent of spun rain lingered in the air.