Harrower's Hall, Sanctuary
It began with a knock—or rather, a thump, followed by a muffled yelp.
A moment later, a soggy figure stumbled into the entryway of the Harrower's Hall, clutching a bright red postbag that steamed in the warmth of the threshold. He wore a high-vis waterproof jacket several sizes too large, a Royal Mail lanyard tucked haphazardly into his collar, and a hat in the colours of the Union Jack. Rain dripped steadily from the brim, creating a small puddle at his feet. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, eyes wide and blinking beneath fogged glasses. The wards sparked faintly around him, flaring gold before reluctantly allowing passage, crackling like they disapproved of his fluorescent colour palette. The man gave a dazed half-smile, as if unsure whether he'd entered a stately manor or a particularly elaborate prank show.
"Delivery for... uh, Mr. A. Fen?" he managed.
Grey peeked around the corner, curious. Alaric strode forward, boots echoing. The postal worker blinked owlishly at the tall man. It was clear he was thinking he'd walked onto a movie set. "That would be me," Alaric said smoothly, precisely like a leading man who'd just hit his mark.
The postal worker handed over an elegant envelope sealed with an Unseelie crest, followed by a second, smaller letter bound with lilac ribbon and no return address. Before he could retreat, Maerlowe stepped in and politely (but very firmly) escorted the poor man back outside, muttering about breaking protective enchantments and the unfortunate side effects of temporal displacement.
In the drawing room, Alaric slit the seal on the formal letter with one perfectly manicured long finger and skimmed the contents.
"The Queen grants us audience," he announced seriously. "Three days hence. Midnight. Location to be disclosed via envoy."
Wickham muttered something about dramatic timing and peacocks.
But Alaric, instead of setting the second letter aside, lifted it with a bemused smile. "And what's this? A billet-doux from one of my many admirers?"
He waggled his brows at Grey.
Grey folded her arms, chin tilting up in what she hoped was a regal show of composure, though she felt anything but. Her shoulders tightened reflexively, a silent brace for the inevitable embarrassment. "Don't you dare read that aloud," she said, her tone sharper than intended.
Internally, she was already regretting speaking. Of course he would ignore that. Telling Alaric Fen not to do something was like wafting a steak under a starving wolf's nose and whispering "no touchy."
Alaric, naturally, proceeded to read it aloud.
"Dearest darling," he began in his most theatrical voice, every syllable wrapped in that velvety Celtic lilt of his, curling and caressing the words like a lover's hand. "It has been months, but the memory of that night still sings in my bones. The scent of rosemary and crushed velvet clings to me like a fever."
Alaric paused for effect.
Wickham, for once, was silent. Not a peep. Not even a snort. He sat rigid as a doll at teatime, one pinkie frozen mid-air like it had been petrified in scandal.
His eyes darted to the letter and back to Alaric, who was reading with such delicious relish that Wickham looked positively stricken. A fine sheen of sweat bloomed at his temples, and his lips parted as though to object—only to snap shut again, trembling with unsaid words and unmistakable panic.
His ears glowed like twin coals, and if he'd been wearing his usual flamboyant cravat, it would've been used as a noose to end the embarrassment on the spot.
Alaric continued, gleeful, voice like velvet and whiskey curling through the air. "You said I was trouble, and I told you I was worse. I still dream of your mouth against mine—how your lips parted in surprise, then surrendered with such heat I nearly forgot my name. The way you laughed when I knocked over the candlesticks—oh, darling, you lit me up like a bonfire on Beltane."
Maerlowe strangled a laugh and tried his best to turn it into a cough. He stole a glance at Wickham then, who had frozen like a man caught mid-duel—wide-eyed, red-eared, and teetering between horror and hope. Alaric, ever the cat with cream, pretended not to notice, his mouth twitching at the corners with barely-suppressed delight.
Grey's face flared a vivid shade of crimson, her mouth opening and closing in sheer outrage. She could feel the heat climbing all the way to her ears—damn her fair complexion. She hated that he saw it, and worse, that he was obviously loving it. Her hands clenched in her lap as a fresh wave of jealousy stabbed through her. What was it about that letter that made her want to set it, and him, on fire?
Alaric gave her a look that he suggested he found her present colour particularly fetching—of course he did—and that only made her want to throw something at his smug, beautiful face.
"Come back to me, darling. Say you meant it. Say I wasn't just a midsummer fever dream—fleeting and sweet, with your hands still scorched into my skin. The scent of you still clings to my pillows. My bones still ache for your chaos."
"That is enough!" Grey snapped, rising to her feet so quickly the teacup beside her rattled. Her cheeks were flaming, her jaw tight, arms folded across her chest like a shield. Her glare was aimed squarely at Alaric, but part of her fury was, frustratingly, self-directed. She knew it was ridiculous to be jealous over a letter clearly not meant for him. And yet. Here we are, Wyrde.
Alaric tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking over her with lazy amusement and a glimmer of something sharper beneath. Maerlowe sipped his tea like it was the most fascinating theatre he'd seen in centuries. And Wickham? Wickham didn't dare look up—because if he did, he'd combust on the spot.
Alaric blinked innocently. "What? I didn't write it."
"You're certainly enjoying it," Grey snapped, her voice sharp with indignation, arms crossed tight like she was physically holding in the rest of the sentence she wanted to unleash. Her shoulders were rigid, jaw clenched, and her eyes burned with the kind of fury that only came from feeling both embarrassed and ignored. She knew the tone made her sound jealous—and she hated that too—but she couldn't stop the words from tumbling out, honed like little knives. She couldn't stand how smug he looked, like this entire spectacle was just another game to win. Anger and jealousy strangled tongue with complete incoherence.
"Can you blame me? It's beautifully written." He lifted the letter to his nose and inhaled theatrically, maintaining eye contact with her before allowing his eyes to flutter shut in exaggerated bliss. "Mmm—tragedy and yearning. My favourite notes."
Maerlowe cleared his throat delicately, hiding a smile behind his teacup. His eyes drifted to Wickham, who was now studiously examining a bookshelf.
"Strange it ended up here," Alaric mused, turning the letter over. "Must be the postal Fae union again."
"Or a mischievous sprite with a flair for romance," Maerlowe offered.
Grey glared at Alaric, who looked maddeningly pleased with himself. She crossed her arms tighter, "Old god of poor decisions," she glowered, muttering under her breath,
Wickham finally spoke, voice suspiciously hoarse. "Well. I think the real mystery is why you received it here."
"Indeed," Alaric replied, eyes dancing. He gave Grey a meaningful wink, the kind that hovered somewhere between tease and challenge, daring her to respond. "But clearly, it wasn't meant for me. Pity."
Grey sat, still bristling, but inside, a small, traitorous part of her made a quiet vow: she could write something better. Witty, heartfelt, devastating. Something true.
Maerlowe set his teacup down with a soft clink, his expression shifting from wry amusement to something far more somber.
"We've received the Queen's summons. That much is clear," he said. "But the real question is: how do we prepare?"
The levity drained from the room as if someone had pulled a plug from a bath.
Alaric's smile faded slowly, like candlelight retreating before a storm. He turned toward the darkened window, where distant lightning coiled through the clouds.
"The Courts," he began, his voice quiet but weighty, "are less like kingdoms now and more like bones left in the forest. Scattered. Picked clean."
He turned back to face them. "Most of the old royal lines are gone—faded into obscurity, bent the knee to Caderyn, or vanished when their anchors to the world crumbled. But the Queen... she persists. Not because she clings to a throne, but because she remembers what the world was before. Her strength isn't in numbers. It's in memory."
He leaned against the mantle, arms crossed. "The Unseelie Court doesn't have armies anymore, but it has secrets. And secrets can be sharper than swords. If she chooses to side with us, it will tilt the board. But she will not do so lightly. Nor kindly."
Grey felt a chill crawl up her spine.
"She is not without power," Alaric finished. "She has simply been waiting for the right reason to use it."
"Whatever strength we have left," he said. "We'll need it all. She does not grant audience. She summons. And no one walks away unchanged."
A hush settled in the room, grave and absolute.
The candle on the sill guttered in a sudden gust, though no wind stirred the air.
The letter still lay between them, forgotten.
But Wickham's cheeks remained stained with colour long after the fire was gone.