The portal stank of salt, copper, and fresh parchment — the kind of magic that felt printed, not born. Sasha coughed as he landed, boots skidding across a floor made of crushed teeth and maroon tile.
They called it the Red Vale now. Some still clung to the name Nightmare Lands, but Sasha found that a bit dramatic, especially after stepping in with his own two feet. There was nothing overtly magical about it—not at first glance. In truth, the Red Vale didn't look all that different from the realm he'd come from.
It still had color, it still had light. The buildings were shaped with the same kind of arrogance, and the trees swayed to winds you couldn't always feel. But everything here shimmered with a deep, luxurious red tint—as if a velvet curtain had been drawn over the world.
And red meant something here. Not violence, necessarily—though it carried that—but elegance. Wealth. A kind of grandeur that felt handpicked. His father once told him, during a quieter visit, that people liked to say green was the color of money. "But no," the Fear Dearg had said, holding up a goblet the color of arterial spill, "money is red—because it's always paid in someone else's blood."
His father's home wasn't a haunted hut in the woods. It was a palace of blood tones, a finely kept ruin made for those who loved red the way nobles loved gold. A rich man's dream soaked in velvet and veils, where every wall whispered debts in crimson.
His father's home wasn't a haunted hut in the woods. It was a palace of blood tones, a finely kept ruin made for those who loved red the way nobles loved gold. A rich man's dream soaked in velvet and veils, where every wall whispered debts in crimson.
He should have felt creeped out by the place. But he didn't.
There was something about the Red Vale that felt like it kept him alive—like it was holding its breath just for him. It looked too much like the Awakened World, yes, but touched in red. A filter of crimson woven into the very light. And in his father's domain, red was everything.
As Sasha walked, he glanced down at his own reflection in a sliver of polished wall. His hair. Too blonde. His eyes. Too blue. He hated it—the way the fae had changed him. Even his freckles were always hidden with a flick of glamour, like shame folded into skin.
His mother—and Viktor's father, bless their haunted hearts—had always accepted how he looked. Told him that no matter what anyone said, they'd always be jealous he pulled it off so well.
To be honest, Sasha had never expected Viktor's father to take him in. His mother explained it plainly once: she and Viktor's father weren't in love, not really. They were very good friends—with benefits—and they happened to run a con built on magic, charm, and mutual benefit.
They didn't love each other the way most people imagined; they loved what their union could do. They were good at making others think it was true love, the kind that made poems wilt and kings weep. That's how they managed to pull the con over Sasha's father—right in the middle of an orgy, no less. He thought he'd struck gold, whisked their mother off like he'd won her.
He'd only learned about it years later—told by Viktor when he was away in China as a teenager. There'd been a party, thick with wine and velvet, when his father had shown up and tried to puff his chest with something petty. He'd raised a glass and said, loud enough to hush the room, "So, tell me—how does it feel to raise my seed?"
He'd expected Viktor's father to snap, to retaliate with blade or spell. After all, the man was infamous for ending others over far less. He didn't just punish enemies—he took what they loved. Not just blood, but legacies, names, things that couldn't be replaced. Entire bloodlines had been brought low for crossing the wrong line. Once, he'd taken a noble's tongue and hung it above his hearth as a reminder.
But Viktor's father had only smiled—slow, sharp. The kind of smile meant for closing doors. "Better than you ever could," he said. "And it ain't my mistake you didn't pull out."
He'd allowed the boy's father to visit, even to stay when needed—because, as he put it, "The child should learn the other side." But it was made clear who was truly raising him, shaping him. Viktor's father knew exactly what he'd taken: not just a woman or pride, but the one thing the other man had wanted most at the time—a son.
In old Irish belief, a son wasn't just a legacy. He was a vessel of memory, lineage, protection. A son's loyalty could outlive blood feuds; a son's strength could carry a name across centuries. For a fae-born or fae-tied man, having a son was often seen as anchoring their magic in the mortal world—an insurance of identity, inheritance, and shadowed power.
And Viktor's father had claimed that gift—not by accident, but by design.
Sasha had been stunned—not just by the insult, but by the ease of it. The elegance. The restraint sharpened into cruelty. It was the kind of response that didn't need fire—it already left a scar.
He'd finally made it to the garden entrance—the one that held the old force field just before the door. For a moment, he hoped his appearance hadn't changed too much. The last thing he wanted was for the barrier to reject him. If it did, he'd have to wait around for someone to come and let him in, and he hated that.
Still, he was already mid-step when the sensation hit. Something inside him felt momentarily misaligned—off in a way he couldn't quite name. It wasn't pain. More like a tingling that didn't know where to settle. Probably just the Vale's way of announcing his arrival.
He pushed forward anyway. Hesitation never served him well in this place.
The path had changed—subtly, but enough for him to notice. Stones that once gleamed with mossy red now pulsed with something darker, and thorny vines curled tighter against the walls like they'd been listening in on too many secrets.
One thing hadn't changed, though: there were still no servants at his father's door. Never had been. The old man liked it that way. Privacy mattered more to him than spectacle—except for the statues, of course. The Fear Dearg kept plenty of those, scattered along the walkways like sentries. Quiet. Watchful. Eternal.
As Sasha stepped closer, the statue shuddered. This one wasn't just decoration.
It had been his nanny once—not in the usual sense, but close enough. His father had crafted it specifically for him, back when he'd stay for long stretches during his youth. When the Fear Dearg was away—off handling business or brokering blood-bound pacts—this statue was his comfort. It hummed lullabies in low stone vibrations, watched the threshold at night, lit hearths without flame.
Now, the gold sack fell from its grip and struck the ground with a hollow thunk. Its stone face shifted in horror—mouth opening, eyes leaking powdered rust, cracking with grief.
The joints of its arms split. Marble groaned as it stepped down from the pedestal like a sleepwalker waking into pain. Its body moved with reverence and dread, as though it knew it shouldn't.
Then it spoke. Old Galtic, thick and wet: "Cad a rinne siad leat...? Tusa é? Fuilscáileach... mo leanbh."
What have they done to you...? Is it you? Blood-shadow... my child.
The statue raised a trembling hand and gently touched his face. Its fingers, wet with powdered tears, brushed along his jaw and brow, wiping away the glamour with ritual precision. For one brief minute, it worked—his true features shimmered through: darker hair, the depth in his original eyes, the freckles that once marked his boyhood.
But the spell snapped back like a rubber band. The glamour stung as it reclaimed him, crawling over his face like a second skin.
"I'm sorry," the statue whispered, grief thick in its stone throat.
He nearly cried. It had been so long since someone had used that name without laughing.
His father had given it to him—Fuilscáileach—during one of their earliest rites, the name bound to blood and shadow as both protection and promise. But during his time in that cruel French-fae court, Genevieve's father had heard the name and turned it into a parlor joke. A twisted insult. He'd used it mockingly in front of guests, claiming it was ironic—a blood-shadow that couldn't cast his own.
Viktor had told him later: during one of the Fear Dearg's surprise visits to check in, he'd overheard that insult. And that was all it took.
Thirteen nights followed. Screaming nightmares flooded that house, soaking it with terror so deep the floors reportedly whispered. Mirrors bled when anyone dared speak the name again. The curse was never lifted—just... forgotten.
Now, the statue turned toward the main path and began walking, joints creaking with every step. Sasha followed silently, the scent of stone dust and dried moss clinging to his coat as they moved deeper into the garden. The air felt older here—more aware.
At the end of the walkway, beneath a twisted arch of red thorns, his father stood waiting. The Fear Dearg stilled as soon as he saw him. Then, almost absently, he let his red cap fall to the ground.
He bent slowly to retrieve it, brushing it off with a cloth tucked into his sleeve. There was no rush in the motion—just pride, control, and the unshakable ritual of a man who had never needed servants to make a presence known.
"Mo leanbh," the Fear Dearg said quietly. "You returned."
Sasha swallowed, the words like gravel in his throat. "Ní raibh sé riamh éasca," he murmured. It was never easy.
His father's expression didn't shift, only his eyes narrowed. "Bhuel... níor iarr mé é a bheith éasca." Well... I never asked for it to be easy.
He gave Sasha another long look—eyes lingering on the golden hair, the softened jaw, the glamour-layered cheekbones that didn't quite belong. Then he added, voice colder now, "Seo an fáth nach ndéanaimid rudaí le deifir." This is why we don't rush things.
He turned slightly, adjusting the red cap atop his head with unnecessary precision. "Let the mortals panic over famine. We endure. A little blood. A little stillness. We've lived through hungrier centuries."
There was no comfort in it, only fact.
"I shall call an old friend," he said next, brisk again. "Not only does he make clothes... his daughter will help you."
Sasha stared, a faint scoff caught in his chest. "That's it? That's what you've got to say after all this time, Father?"
The Fear Dearg narrowed his eyes. "Ní labhraím le mac atá gléasta mar bhréagán ó La Cour des Miroirs Voilés." I do not speak to a son dressed like a doll from the Court of Veiled Mirrors.
Sasha's fists clenched at his sides. "Don't say I asked for this. I didn't ask for them to rip my face apart just to make it palatable to their guests."
"Exactly," the Fear Dearg snapped. "Your dark red hair—your freckles—you were proud of that. You fought tooth and bone to keep your face yours. Now look."
Sasha looked away, jaw twitching. "So you're just going to insult me, call in a tailor, and what? Pretend like we're fine?"
His father stepped forward, close enough that Sasha could smell the mix of wine, dust, and burnt pine clinging to his coat. "No, mo Fuilscáileach. I am going to fix what they cracked. You will cry later. First—we burn the mask."
Without another word, he turned toward the standing mirror near the arch. A massive thing, veined with silver rot and framed in bone-carved ivy. The glass pulsed faintly, like it was remembering how to breathe.
The Fear Dearg slipped a small blade from his sleeve and nicked his thumb. Blood welled—deep and almost black—and he pressed it to the mirror's center.
"Fuil ghlaoite. Caomh domhain. Faigh mé an siúinéir agus a mhac-sa," he whispered. Called by blood. Deep kin. Bring me the tailor and his daughter.
The mirror shimmered, rippling like ink disturbed in still water. Sasha folded his arms, leaning against a thorn-covered post. He tried not to care, but something in his spine coiled in anticipation.
Then the surface split.
A figure stepped through—riding boots sharp, shoulders high, dragging a trail of heat and intention behind her. Familiar eyes. Familiar smirk.
And then—Sasha blinked. Something inside him tripped over itself. The breath snagged in his throat before he even realized why.
Her hair. Loose. Red. It spilled in waves around her shoulders, catching the dull garden light like strands of flame. He rarely saw it that way—not in America, not with all the reasons they both had to hide, to blend. And now, standing tall in a tailored traveling suit with her chin lifted and fire in her stride, Sabine looked like something out of an old war song.
It hit him like a spell. Like a memory he'd forgotten he still wanted. That stupid, aching, teenage crush of his—the one he thought had died somewhere between banquets and betrayals—rose back up in his chest like a curse.
He blushed. Hard.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, trying to look away and utterly failing.
Sabine rolled her eyes at him. "Well. I think Viktor's going to hate that I got to this tale before him."