The parley was held in the Chapter House of Waverley Abbey, a place of ruined, skeletal beauty on the banks of the River Wey. It was neutral ground, Alistair had once explained—a site where monastic prayer and older, pagan reverence had layered and cancelled each other out, leaving a quiet void in the magical spectrum. The air was cold stone and damp moss.
Jonas moved stiffly, his ribs a cage of fire with every breath. Maria held his arm, not for support, but as an anchor, her face a mask of calm preparedness. The twins walked behind them, flanking them like guards. Erik carried his weapon as a simple, unadorned staff. Kaitlyn's was a heavy bracer on her forearm. They had practised this—looking controlled, looking unified, looking like more than scared children.
The emissaries from the Cŵn Annwn were already there. The man and woman in their sharp, anachronistic suits stood like statues beside the crumbling archway. With them was a third figure—an older man, tall and thin as a greyhound, with hair the colour of frost and eyes the pale, piercing blue of a winter sky. He wore a long coat of black wool, and he leaned on a cane of polished yew. He did not radiate power like Morwen's creations; he absorbed the light around him, a study in quiet, absolute authority. This was not Bertram, but his Chamberlain, a man named Rhys.
"Mr. and Mrs. Kelsey," Rhys said, his voice a dry rustle of parchment. His Welsh lilt was more pronounced, a song from the mountains. "The Dyad. We appreciate you coming to… terms."
"We're here to listen," Maria said, her voice not yielding an inch. "Nothing is agreed."
"Of course." A thin smile. "May I?" He gestured with his cane towards the centre of the Chapter House, where a stone table and several chairs had been placed—an absurd touch of formality amidst the ruins.
They sat. The twins remained standing just behind their parents' chairs, a deliberate show of force.
"His Majesty, King Bertram, extends his condolences on the loss of your centaur friend. A crude tool, sent by a crude mind." Rhys dismissed Alistair's death with a wave of his fingers. "It illustrates the point. You are besieged by chaos. We offer order. You are vulnerable in the open. We offer the impregnable fastness of the Black Mountain."
"In exchange for what?" Jonas's voice was gravel. "Our children's fealty?"
"In exchange for their survival, and their correct… education." Rhys's pale eyes flicked to the twins, assessing them like a butcher sizing livestock. "The Dyad is a rare bloom. Left untended, it will be crushed by the first frost—or plucked by a passing brute like Morwen. Under our care, it will be cultivated. Its potential realized."
"They are not an 'it,'" Maria said, each word a chip of ice. "They are our son and daughter. Any arrangement includes us. All of us. Together."
Rhys inclined his head, as if he'd expected this sentimental hurdle. "Naturally. The familial bond is a component of the Dyad's stability. It will be… accommodated. You will have quarters within the citadel."
"Accommodated is not the same as respected," Jonas pushed. "We are their parents. We have final say in their training, their welfare."
This time, Rhys's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Kelsey, with all respect due to your… elemental spark… you are out of your depth. You can teach a child to run. We can teach him the art of war, the history of the hunt, the gramarye of the true weapons they now hold. Would you deny them that knowledge out of pride?"
It was a masterful strike, aimed at their deepest parental fear: that they were inadequate.
"For a time," Maria cut in, before Jonas could rise to the bait. "A specified time. One year. Sanctuary and training for one year. After which, we are free to leave."
Rhys steepled his fingers. "A seedling does not become an oak in one year. But… a probationary period is not unheard of. A year to demonstrate the value of our tutelage." He made it sound like a favour he was granting them.
"And during that year," Jonas said, leaning forward despite the pain, "their weapons remain theirs. Your people do not touch them, study them, or demand their use."
"They are heirloom relics of the Hunter lineage. They belong with the Dyad. That is not in dispute." Rhys said it smoothly, but there was a hunger in his gaze as it lingered on Erik's staff. "What is in dispute is the undisciplined wildness of the power that wields them. That, we will correct."
The negotiations continued, a tense back-and-forth over the minutiae of their gilded imprisonment. Guarantees of safety (vague). Access to libraries (granted). Freedom to walk the citadel grounds (supervised). Each point was a brick in the wall of the cage they were agreeing to enter.
Throughout it all, the twins were silent. But they were listening, and they were feeling.
Erik felt the Chamberlain's mind. It wasn't open to him, but it gave off a texture—cold, polished, and organised like a filing cabinet of razor blades. He sensed no outright malice, only a terrifying, absolute sense of ownership. They were being acquired.
Kaitlyn felt the space. She felt the ancient, dead magic of the abbey, and the living, predatory stillness of the Cŵn Annwn emissaries. She felt her father's pain and simmering fury, her mother's desperate, calculating control. And she felt the bond between her and Erik, humming with a new, grim understanding. They were the stakes. The prize. The deal was being made around them, but it was entirely about them.
Finally, a fragile, hateful agreement was reached. One year. The family together. Training. Sanctuary.
Rhys stood. "Then we are in accord. A vehicle will collect you at dawn tomorrow. Bring only what is precious. The citadel will provide." He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at the twins. "King Bertram is most eager to meet the Dyad in person. He has waited a long time to see such a thing walk the world again."
With that, he and his silent companions walked away, melting into the shadows of the ruins.
The moment they were gone, the rigid posture left Jonas's body. He slumped, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.
"Mum…" Kaitlyn's voice was small. "It's a trap, isn't it?"
"Yes, love," Maria said, her own mask crumbling into exhaustion. "But it's the only trap with a door we might someday learn to pick. The one out there," she gestured to the world beyond the abbey, "is just a slaughtering pen."
Erik was staring at the spot where Rhys had stood. "He doesn't see us as people. We're a… a phenomenon. To be catalogued and utilised."
"Then we learn," Jonas said grimly, forcing himself upright. "We learn everything they have to teach. About our power, about our weapons, about them. We take every scrap of knowledge, every ounce of strength they offer. And we use it. Not for their kingdom. For us. To get free."
That night, packing was a surreal and sombre affair. What did you take to a gilded cage? Photos. A few books. The twins packed the few things that still smelled of their old, normal life.
Maria went to Alistair's room one last time. There, on his bare desk, she found a second, smaller note that had been tucked under his inkwell. It was in his precise, spiky handwriting.
Jonas, Maria – If you are reading this, the worst has come. Remember: a cage, no matter how golden, has bars. But bars can be melted, with the right fire. And doors, even magical ones, have hinges. Find them. Trust the Dyad. Their bond is the one weapon no king can ever truly understand or control. - A.
She clutched the note to her chest, a final gift from their fallen friend. A spark of hope, and a battle plan.
At dawn, the black Rolls-Royce returned, not alone. It was followed by a large, windowless van of the same unreflective black. The emissaries loaded their few bags without a word.
As the family stood on the pavement, taking one last look at their battered, beloved house, the female emissary spoke. "Do not look so grim. You are stepping into your legacy. The chaos of the mundane world is behind you."
They got into the plush, silent interior of the Rolls. The doors shut with a sound of absolute finality.
As the car pulled away, Kaitlyn, staring out the tinted window, reached over and took Erik's hand. Not for comfort, but for connection. A silent vow.
They were not passengers.
They were prisoners of war, being taken to the enemy's capital. And their education was about to begin.