The fire had burned low, ash crumbling into its own reflection, orange-glowing embers nestled like sleeping stars beneath the grate. A single oil lamp hummed softly atop the desk where Maerlowe sat, casting long shadows across scrolls, maps, and a half-drunk cup of tea turned tepid.
Alaric stood nearby, arms folded, leaning slightly against a carved lintel post etched with runes even he didnât fully recognise. Across the room, Grey had fallen asleep in an armchairâlimbs coiled beneath her like a cat, hair shadowing her eyes, a faint thread of breath visible in the cold.
She didnât snore. Of course she didnât. Even unconscious, Greylene Wyrde made silence feel like a deliberate choice.
Maerlowe closed his book with a sigh.
"Will she be safe?" he asked.
Alaric looked over. "With me, aye."
"That wasnât the question."
A pause.
Then: "No," Alaric admitted.
Maerlowe nodded as if heâd expected it. They sat for a while in the hush. The sanctuary, usually still, felt heavier tonightâlike something vast and half-buried had exhaled beneath the foundations.
Finally, Alaric broke the silence. "Youâre not entirely mortal," he said, softly.
Maerlowe didnât look up. "No," he agreed.
"Not Fae-touched either. Not in the way she is."
"I wasnât gifted," Maerlowe said. "Just⦠caught."
Alaric raised an eyebrow.
"In the Vale of Ardara," Maerlowe sighed, memory settling over him like a heavy cloak. "Many years ago. A gate opened during Samhain. I didnât pass through it. I just watched too long."
The fire snapped faintly.
"And some things," he added, "watch back."
Alaric nodded, slowly. "It stays with you."
Maerlowe didnât answer right away. When he did, it was quiet. "Colour is never quite as vivid, is it? Afterward."
Alaricâs amber eyes flicked toward the dying fire. "No," he said. "It isnât."
A log settled with a soft collapse of flame.
"Is it true?" Maerlowe asked. "What they say about the Unseelie wells?"
Alaric didnât speak.
Maerlowe looked up. His gaze wasnât accusingâjust tired.
Alaric finally said, "The soulwells have always been scarce. But now⦠they run dry. There is less to draw from. What remains is thin. Incomplete. Like memory faded in acid."
"How long?"
"A century. Maybe less. Unless something changes."
"Does your Queen know?"
"She pretends she doesnât."
They lapsed into silence again.
Grey shifted slightly in her sleep. A strand of dark hair fell across her cheek.
Alaric watched her, gaze unreadable.
"Sheâsâ¦" he started, then stopped.
"Sheâs beautiful," Maerlowe offered.
"Aye," Alaric agreed. "But itâs not that."
Maerlowe tilted his head.
Alaricâs expression didnât change. His voice was cool, clinical. "Itâs the stillness," he said. "She doesnât reach. Doesnât grasp for sensation, or validation, or even escape. She just⦠exists. Like a moment caught between heartbeats."
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Maerlowe leaned back. "And that draws you?"
Alaric looked away. "I donât know what it does."
They sat with the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner.
When Maerlowe next spoke, his voice was gentler. "It wears on you, doesnât it? The years."
Alaric didnât answer right away.
Then he said, eyes focused on something in the distant past, "I forget sounds. Faces. Places. I remember the feeling of watching Pompeii fall, but not the colour of the sky. I can quote every death wish whispered to me by a dying priest, but Iâve forgotten the name of the woman I held afterward."
Maerloweâs fingers tapped lightly against his teacup.
"It all becomes patterns," Alaric said. "Loops. Repeats. You think you're chasing meaning, but really you're just counting how many times youâve seen the same play with different costumes."
"I know the feeling," Maerlowe said softly. "Even mortals taste it. The weariness of being awake too long."
Alaric looked at him. There was a moment of understandingânot camaraderie, not quiteâbut something older. Two scholars of entropy. Two relics watching the tide draw back.
"Immortality," Maerlowe murmured, "is the ultimate thief of joy."
Alaricâs smile was faint. "And memory the accomplice."
Outside, the sky began to pale. Not pink, not goldâjust that soft dull light that meant morning had come without asking permission. Grey stirred, but didnât wake.
Alaric stood. Straightened his coat. Rolled his shoulders like a man who remembered carrying things far heavier than weariness.
"Weâll need to move quickly," he said.
"Yes," Maerlowe replied. "Before the Seelie move first."
Alaric nodded, glancing once more toward Grey, still curled in sleep. The lines of tension didnât leave his face, but they eased, just slightly.
"Watch her for me," he whispered quietly.
Maerlowe watched him for a moment, face inscrutable. Then gave a quiet hum. "Always."
With that, Alaric turned toward the door, boots soft on stone. The sanctuary didnât try to hold himâjust breathed around him like a house that knew departures were part of the ritual. As he passed into the mist-wrapped dawn, the runes in the lintel flared brieflyâan acknowledgment, not a warning.
Behind him, Grey slept on, untouched by the weight of the waking world.
For now.
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Folio of Threads Entry: The Wild Hunt & Samhain
As recorded in the Harrower's Book of Telling, transcribed by Wickham (with commentary, unsolicited)
"On Samhain Eve, when the veil thins and the world exhales, the Hunt rides."
So begins every warning carved into lintels older than memory. In ink, in blood, in ash. Samhain is no mere festival of harvestâit is the hinge upon which the year turns, a crossroads of breath and bone. On that night, the Wild Hunt rides forth from the shadowed halls of the Unseelie, cloaked in storm and smoke.
They are not wholly fae, nor wholly ghost. They are something in betweenâshards of will and wrath, bound to the Queen who remembers death and honors it.
The Huntâs purpose is simple: gather what should not remain.
Souls that linger.
Wards left open.
Things with names older than stars.
But as with all things fae, purpose shifts with the wind. Some ride for duty. Some for the thrill. Some because they no longer remember another way to be.
And one, once, rode for love.
Wickhamâs note: That one never laughs.
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The Folio of Threads Entry: Samhain, The Doorway Night
On Samhain Eve, fires are kindled in fields and hearths alike. Offerings of bread, milk, and apple are left at crossroads, windowsills, and doorways. Not for thanks. Not for mercy.
For safety.
The belief is that the dead may walk briefly beside the livingâand some spirits do return for one last warmth, one last face, one last song. But not all who pass through the door do so with kindness in their hearts.
Thus, the Hunt.
They ride not to cause fear but to prevent worse.
Rules of the Hunt (Observed and Occasionally Ignored)
* Do not look directly into the face of the leader. (Unless you're fond of forgetting your name.)
* If caught in the path of the Hunt, lie still and do not speak. They may mistake you for a shadow.
* If offered a drink, never accept. Not even water. (Especially not water.)
* If you hear the hounds baying in the distance, do not answer. What they chase may be chasing you in turn.
* If the rider in green speaks your name⦠run. Or kneel. Or both. Honestly, youâre probably doomed.
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Folio of Threads Addendum: Tales Still Whispered
There is a storyânot yet written down, but often spoken when the fireâs lowâof a mortal girl who danced too close to the Hunt, laughed too brightly, and captured the gaze of a rider cloaked in ash and antler.
He returned the following year.
But not the one after.
The story ends in frost and silence.
Some say she waits still.
Others say she joined.
The Hunt will come whether you call it or not.
Just hope itâs not coming for you.
Wickhamâs final note scribbled in the margin: Honestly, just stay indoors with a good bottle and better company. Leave the riding and the reaping to those who donât get hangovers.