Harrower's Hall, Sanctuary
The rain had stopped by the time they reached the glade. Clouds still hung low and pale, smeared like ash over the treetops, but the path was quiet—no birdsong, no wind. Just the crunch of damp underfoot, the sigh of wet branches above, and Alaric's low whistle as the glamour parted.
"By the broken moons," he murmured as the ruin straightened around them.
The ivy pulled back like lace revealing embroidery, and the glamour lifted just enough to show the bones of the church beneath: blackened stone veined with living runes, windows flickering with the glow of forgotten gods, arches that reached skyward like yearning hands.
The scent of myrrh and oiled parchment wafted out into the open air.
"You built this?" Alaric asked. He seemed awed.
Grey shrugged. "The Harrowers did. I just live here."
"No," Alaric corrected softly. "Not you. Your people. Mortals. You built this with hands that bled. You carved the wards into the foundations with bone and will."
He reached out, fingers hovering just over the stone reverently.
"There's depth here. And defiance. You don't see that anymore." He smiled, faintly. "Everything's glass and angles now. Buildings that forget they're supposed to guard things."
Grey watched him closely. His reaction made her look at the building with new eyes. She wasn't sure she had ever seen it that way before. Of course he liked Gothic architecture—sharp angles, vaulted silences, and just enough drama to make you question your mortality.
"You sound wistful."
Alaric tilted his head, lips curving. "I am always wistful, pet. That's half my charm."
Grey folded her arms, rolling her eyes. "Exactly how old are you?"
He turned toward the rose window, where threads of moss curled like script.
"I remember when your kind painted gods onto cave walls in ochre and grease. I watched them hammer thunder out of stone wheels. I danced in a hall of bronze before any empire learned to lie in Latin."
Grey stared.
"So… very."
Alaric turned back to her and grinned wolfishly. "What's the human word for it? Cryptid?"
Grey snorted. Of course he'd go there. Somehow it made perfect sense—the immortal Fae who flirted like a tragic romance novel hero and sulked like a cat in the rain identifying with the stuff of tabloid sightings and conspiracy blogs. Still, she couldn't help the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
"A cryptid with an ego problem," she muttered. "You missed your calling for daytime television."
Alaric's grin sharpened. "And yet, here I am—broadcasting exclusively to you, pet."
Grey rolled her eyes again, but the heat that prickled her cheeks had nothing to do with the hearth. She told herself it was just residual rain chill. And not the way he was looking at her like he enjoyed every flicker of her sarcasm. Few did.
"You're a walking Wikipedia article," Grey muttered. "No wonder you wear leather."
She turned to face him, where he was standing at the edge of the wards. He seemed to be waiting for something.
"So what, are you like a vampire? Do you need to be invited in? I don't know the protocol." She narrowed her eyes, arms crossed, not entirely joking.
Alaric's lips quirked. "Only if the invitation comes in verse, sealed with blood, and followed by a dramatic gasp. Otherwise, I'll settle for a door held open and a tolerable attitude."
He stepped past the wards, as if they didn't exist.
Grey's eyes grew wide. "That's not supposed to be possible."
Alaric gave her a sidelong glance, all injured innocence. "You wound me. It's not my fault your protections are polite."
She crossed her arms, frowning. "Polite protections don't let someone breeze through like they're being welcomed home."
His smile curved, lazy and amused. "Maybe they like me. Or maybe they've grown bored of growling at shadows."
Grey watched the faint shimmer of wardlight ripple around where he stood. No disruption. No resistance. Just... acceptance. It set her teeth on edge.
She was definitely going to have a word with Maerlowe.
Grey sighed and turned. "At least I have a shadow, not just an attitude. Don't drip glamour on the rug, Elder Relic."
He grinned to himself. "Charming. Next she'll be asking if I come with a museum plaque and a velvet rope."
Inside, the sanctuary was warm. Not with fire—though the hearth in the central hall crackled merrily—but with something subtler. A hush that suggested peace, not silence. Magic that settled rather than pulsed.
Wickham was sprawled in an armchair with one leg over the armrest, a cup of something steaming precariously balanced on his knee. Maerlowe sat more traditionally at the long oaken table, notebook open, several different colored inks scattered around him like a scholar's battlefield.
They looked up in unison when Grey opened the heavy door.
Wickham's eyes narrowed immediately.
"Oh no."
Grey lips drew into a tight line. "Hello to you, too."
"I leave you alone for one night and you come home with a stray Fae?" Wickham's voice rose an octave. "Do we not have rules, darling? A vetting process? A pest control sigil at least?"
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "Charming hospitality."
"You're lucky I made tea," Wickham snapped, gesturing vaguely with his mug like it was a scepter of judgment. "Just how did you get in here without tripping the wards, eh? The last one tried to seduce the walls. Whispered sweet nothings to the southeast corner and asked the lintel for its star sign."
Alaric arched one eyebrow with a deadpan flicker of amusement. "For the record, I only flirt with things that flirt back."
Grey snorted a yeah, right and stepped inside, brushing mist from her shoulders.
"Don't worry, he's not staying. He's definitely not housetrained." Alaric spluttered behind her.
"Then why's he in your aura like a particularly smug cat?!" Wickham exclaimed.
Grey didn't answer, just raised an eyebrow that said You deal with it—a look honed by years of unwanted attention. She settled against the doorframe with the air of someone resigned to chaos, but not without conditions.
Alaric gave a soft snort that might have been amusement or agreement and offered a short bow to the room. "Alaric Fen. Unseelie liaison. Retired troublemaker. Currently investigating soul corruption with your resident threadmancer."
Wickham made a sound like a strangled hedgehog. "Threadmancer? That's not even a word—"
Maerlowe cleared his throat, folding his notes pointedly.
"What did you see?" he spoke for the first time.
Grey recounted the haunting. The loop. The false memories that weren't just influence, but insertion—slid into the soul like a thread that didn't belong. She spoke plainly, but her fingers twisted together in her lap, knuckles white.
Maerlowe's face grew graver with every detail, the lines between his brows deepening like ink bleeding into parchment. Wickham, for once, had gone still, his teacup poised mid-air as if afraid even the clink of ceramic would break the shape of her words.
"And the soul?" Maerlowe asked, voice quieter now.
"He was dispersed," Grey said, trying to keep her voice even. "We didn't make it in time."
Wickham set down his cup with exaggerated care. "Threads don't lie, darling. If someone's weaving lies into the loom—"
"—then we've got a saboteur, not a glitch," Grey finished.
Alaric watched her intently, arms still folded, but something had shifted in his posture—shoulders a shade more tense, the line of his jaw drawn tight.
"They're getting better at it," he murmured. "I saw it too. She was... gentle with the soul. That's not how Harrowers usually guide the dead."
Grey glanced at him, sharply. "You expected what, incense and iron bells?"
He met her gaze. "No. I just didn't expect kindness."
That startled her more than it should have.
"Have you ever for a moment considered, Fen," she spat sharply, "That humans aren't the only ones with preconceptions and prejudices? Think on it for a moment, it won't hurt I promise."
He didn't answer, but he paled slightly, some of the swaggering ego gone.
When Grey mentioned the Seelie sigils—thin as threads of gold, glinting like veins inside the stone—Maerlowe sat back slowly.
"Deliberate rerouting," he said. "They're bypassing the choice."
Wickham muttered a curse in a dead language.
Alaric leaned one hip against the fireplace mantle, arms folded.
"They're refining the manipulation," he said. "Subtle enough to avoid full detection. But they're getting bolder."
"And faster," Grey added. "That was the second haunting in under a fortnight."
Maerlowe closed his book. "This changes things."
Wickham stood. "We'll need to bring up the northern chart. Start cross-referencing the sites near active faultlines."
Alaric looked to Grey, quiet for a moment.
"You realise," he said softly, "this doesn't end with watching from the sidelines."
Grey met his gaze.
"I know."