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  Grace had endured captivity among the Blanched longer than any Fay that she knew of —and, truth be told, she’d never heard of another Fay being caught at all.

  But that was beside the point. Being the first meant bragging rights!

  The goat-legged boys would turn positively green with envy.

  I’m making history.

  She withheld a sigh and kept still.

  It wasn’t the sort of legacy she’d hoped for.

  Her jailer—this pompous Keigael, who styled himself High Adjudicator of something-or-other (she couldn’t quite remember the ridiculous title)—was desperate to peer into her thoughts.

  She felt his frustration in every mental probe—attacks escalating into shouted threats of pain aimed at what he thought was her unconscious body. He had no idea she’d awakened hours ago, eyes closed but senses wide open.

  Fay didn’t need open eyes to see; that was just one of the many tricks her kind kept for this side of the world. They lived woven into the mortal realm yet apart—like sky-birds and deep-sea fish, sharing the same world but never quite touching.

  Taevayleen, her island home, nestled in that impossible overlap: as necessary to the earth as wind or water, yet as unreachable to humans as the ocean floor to wings.

  Mereque’s brief passage through it still astonished her—how the spaceman had crossed without unraveling, guided only by that astonishingly bright spark inside him, and her gentle nudges, still bemused her.

  A star rarer than any she’d seen among men. It had pulled her like gravity.

  She lay motionless inside her cage: bars spun from fractal taint; light twisted beyond the spectrum into pure absence—darkness masked in brilliance.

  Her mind matched that strangeness—utterly foreign to mundane humans, perfectly ordinary to her own kind; Leprechauns, Sprigs, Sprites, Gnomes, and all the old tales Mereque might have read in Leopold’s dusty archives.

  Fay thought in whole worlds at once—from the heart of stone to the roof of sky, conscious and unconscious braided together, waking and dreaming the same seamless thread. They lived in constant lucid certainty: self unquestioned, purpose optional. Simply being was enough. Existence was purpose.

  Not every human was closed to it; a few quiet souls had found it in the world’s small gifts. Some had even brushed Taevayleen across her two centuries—fleeting visitors whose wonder still warmed her memory.

  She missed it fiercely now, that shimmering green haven (that and so much more).

  Yet when the star-man crashed into her quiet life, something irresistible had taken hold. Curiosity first—then something deeper she couldn’t name. She had followed unseen, the pull growing with every step, her eyes widening with his every action.

  Keigael paced outside the cage, muttering frustrated incantations. The temple shuddered—distant thunder from above. She didn’t want to imagine what terrors stalked the city streets.

  Closer, from below her, came the vast sorrowful wail of the Weeping Wyrm stirring in its pool of foul excretions. The sound of its corrupted tears and bodily fluids sloshing about, echoed along the stone corridors, making her skin crawl.

  Disgusting.

  When the Guardians of the Floating Stone first descended upon Taevayleen, Grace had trembled in genuine terror.

  The sight of those titans—Hexabulous's volcanic fury and RX414's cold, unyielding precision—had convinced her, in that heart-stopping moment, that judgment had come for some unknowing transgression.

  Her island sanctuary, her very life, seemed forfeit. She could have swooned—but no one would have seen her, so it didn’t seem worthwhile.

  Yet her fear yielded swiftly to wonder. Their quarry was the foreigner—the star-fallen warrior and he led them on an impossible chase, evading draconic flame and machine calculus with stubborn resolve. His resilience ignited something within her: admiration, compulsion, a spark recognizing its kin.

  No mortal had defied the ancient Sky Gods so boldly before. None would dare. Until him.

  Mereque was special.

  She knew it in her heart.

  Her subsequent time amid the guardians only deepened her belief. Beings of their stature stirred only for events of greatest import—threads pulling at the world's weave. Mereque's arrival was no accident; his spark burned too brightly for stupid chance to have a hand in him.

  The Wyrm had gathered a legion of terrible creatures to let loose upon the world. Some from far off lands, others from the deep. All were monsters. She knew that much.

  Birds of a feather, they say.

  Grace couldn’t quite figure out what interest it, and the pretty Blanched leader Athur Tarmour, had in Mereque. The latter plainly held a grudge, the former, who could say.

  Tarmour and Mereque seemed to know one another, she caught that much when they arrived in Havenlocke Harbour—before she was so rudely abducted.

  Beyond that, she knew little else.

  At the periphery of her thoughts, she could feel the Keigael scratched away, probing what he mistook for a veil between waking and dream. Poor fool. No such barrier existed for the Fay. Conscious and subconscious flowed together in seamless, lucid eternity—no need for a self to justify their own existence.

  He pressed at her with waves of sorrow-tainted will, against a wall that wasn’t there (one he concocted without knowing), blind to her quiet, watchful presence.

  The priest was the least of her worries. Her real concern was the Weeping Wyrm. Even half-asleep, she could sense the endless abyss where its mind rested. The despair that consumed the creature wanted—more than anything—to drown the world whole.

  Misery loves company.

  For some reason, Mereque was constantly in their thoughts—which only further cemented her feelings about him.

  He mattered.

  Such an assault would shatter most humans. Most, she amended, her mind flickering to Mereque’s unyielding resolve—maybe not all.

  While Keigael fixated on his impossible breach, Grace turned her gaze inward—and outward—upon him. Leisurely, unseen, she slipped past his defenses and peeked into the heart of Blanched nature.

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  What she saw chilled her.

  He wore the shape of life, but his humanity had fled long ago. Baptism wasn’t transformation; it was death, followed by a parasitic rebirth. A hollowed vessel filled with the Wyrm’s squirming corruption—faded echo of former self, mind twisted into feverish devotion.

  Nightmare creatures, through and through. Humanity eroded to whispers, replaced by pervasive hopelessness.

  The temple shuddered harder, tremors rising from below as the Wyrm’s wail reverberated through stone and soul.

  Keigael faltered, alarm flickering across his pallid face.

  Someone’s not enjoying their sleep.

  Another tremor shook the room and her cage. The priest hissed in irritation.

  The Weeping Wyrm warped everything around it, be it of the waking world, or in unseen sleep; its taint knew no boundaries.

  Her people had avoided it on Earth, and in the Fairylands, where the miasma of infection (albeit much diminished), flowed into their own side of the sea.

  It was the reason her people tended to stick to one place. Travelling across their waters was treacherous at best and they had long ago adopted a practice of isolation because of it. Sure, some had boats, but if they weren’t built right, you’d have a hundred holes burning through the bottom in less than ten strokes.

  That brought up sad memories for her, ones she didn’t want to revisit.

  No time for daydreaming!

  She chastised herself gently—if there was ever a chance to get free, she needed to keep her attention in the present.

  Tarmour had summoned the cage that held her. Whatever magic he’d imbued it with, prevented her from sliding back in the fairy realm (not that that would be a very good idea here). There was no easy out.

  Fortune favored her in his absence. Upon their arrival to the Shimmering City, Tarmour had thrust her upon Keigael with visible distaste: "Take her. I cannot abide her presence. The sight of her... unbalances me."

  What did he mean by that?

  Since then, she hadn’t seen him. His enchantments lingered—fractal bars humming with containment—yet he never returned.

  She pondered that with some amusement.

  Was he afraid of me?

  No, that didn’t seem right. Maybe she was too cheerful, and his evil nature was repulsed by that. Or maybe it was the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine, driving him away like a taste of garlic on a vampire’s tongue.

  Take that!

  Grace didn’t giggle, but she wanted to.

  Keigael was trying to probe her again, but his attention was being diverted.

  This time distant thunder: muffled explosions followed sprinkling dust from the ceiling.

  A sycophant scurried in and fell at his feet, tapping messages onto his hand.

  Grace waited and watched his mind carefully, heart quickening with each whispered thought.

  The ancients—Hexabulous and RX414 were assaulting the city without mercy, causing rampant destruction. And the foreign heretic... the giant from the stars, he had breached the throne room—alone.

  Mereque’s here?

  Her initial disbelief faded to warmth. Grace knew it was true. He was here—for her. She could have cried with glee; but not yet. She needed to flee this coup first.

  She was no helpless damsel; Fay endured through wit and shimmer. She had walked away from worse.

  Grace opened her eyes and stood up. The fractal bars caging her hummed in protest

  The room was small, the walls weeping condensation, and Keigael (only steps away) had frozen in mid-incantation—clearly caught off guard.

  She felt a deep tremor crawl its way through the room again, this one strong enough to cause a fist sized stone to slip loose: striking ground with a loud smack.

  No mortal soul could stand unmoved before the slumbering God of the Blanched.

  In her mind’s eye, Grace could see its grotesque obese bulk—pale and mottled as curdled milk—rising and falling in a labored wheeze somewhere in the depths of this cruel house of worship. Bubbling sores cratered its vast form like volcanic pits, each oozing steaming rivulets of yellowish-green pus that hissed across flaccid folds.

  The effluent mingled with the chamber’s pooling tears—dimly sparkling, semi-translucent, lapping at the entity’s base like a toxic tide. The reek—rotting sweetness laced with acrid bile—clawed at the very walls. Grace’s senses reeled, until a sharp, involuntary gag broke from her throat.

  The sound cut through the shaking distractions like a knife.

  Keigael spun with a serpentine hiss that twisted into a high, eager squeal—the delighted cry of a sadist scenting a victim.

  “Aha! At last, our guest awakens. I am so eager to pick the secrets from your skull, my dear.”

  Hostility poured from him, but pleasure won: he believed her awakening genuine, a crack in Fay resilience ripe for exploitation. Direct torment would yield faster results than futile probing.

  He had no idea she had been awake and watching him the entire time.

  He barked guttural orders. Chained sycophants scurried, fetching hooked tools of rusted iron and bone that clanked like funeral chains.

  Hooded, sense-deprived, the Arch Minister relied on his attendants. They guided him forward until he stood before the cage.

  A key appeared in his hand, fitting an invisible lock. Click. The fractal door swung open on nonexistent hinges.

  Multi-hooked tool gripped tight, Keigael flashed a lipless smile and stepped inside.

  Grace’s dim hope flared bright. Her patience and his arrogance had served her perfectly—one foot in, one foot out. The instant his toes crossed the threshold, reality shimmered.

  Keigael blinked, suddenly occupying the spot she had a moment earlier.

  Grace stood outside, smiling, key in hand, door swinging shut.

  Click.

  Enjoy your stay. Maybe pick the fleas from your head if, you’re so eager.

  Before they could understand the situation, melody spilled from her lips—a Fay song of impossible beauty, woven from Taevayleen’s eternal glades: notes of starlit dew, whispering winds, luring the worthy, lulling the wicked.

  The chained sycophants swayed, eyes glazing, and crumpled soundlessly, chains pooling like fallen vines.

  Keigael’s stammered fury went unheard—his attendants slept, no one left to translate vibration into meaning. Flailing in confusion, he raged impotently behind the fractal bars.

  Grace’s song faded to a satisfied hum.

  The binding had hinged on the threshold: Tarmour’s evil enchantment may have barred her movements between the worlds while she was enclosed, but Keigael’s small breach created the seam she needed. She used that to slip past, leapfrogging him in an unintended swap.

  Corrupt magic flailed impotently within. The cage held its new occupant firmly. Whatever it was made of, the priest could not undo.

  The tremors deepened, becoming more insistent, stronger. The Wyrm’s wail reverberated, pus-flows quickening as its vast bulk shifted below.

  Grace’s eyes gleamed emerald. The thought that Mereque was here made her giddy.

  Freedom never tasted so sweet.

  She turned toward the ascending passages, humming softly, ready to turn chaos into harmony once more.

  Keigael’s sorrow-tainted magic lashed with futility against the bars—void-light blooming and fading harmlessly. His muffled shrieks of outrage echoed faintly as she walked away.

  Then the stones shuddered and groaned.

  She froze. Focused her thoughts and senses, opening her mind’s eye once more.

  The Weeping Wyrm was moving, its vast bulk now stirred fully. Pale flesh rose in sluggish waves. Murky fluids cascaded in hissing rivulets from oozing sores. A deep, abyssal groan escaped it, vibrating throughout the temple. Grace clapped her hands over her ears.

  This horrifying god was coming for them, rising from its putrid festering throne-cradle, made from sorrows and waste.

  Tremors became thunder, the floor shifted under her legs, the stones around her shifted threatening to crumble and crush her.

  She tried to step between the veil, into the Fairylands, to safety: she couldn’t—something barred the way.

  Grace had to skip, avoiding a large block that almost flattened her. The floor gave way and her feet were no longer touching the hard surface, replaced by something wet and spongy; the Weeping Wyrm itself.

  She thought she would be crushed any moment. Pancaked into the roof at the least. But the entire section she had been caught in was lifted whole and by some miracle, shielded her in the violent disaster of the First Temple’s ruin.

  They were going up. Grace held on, danced when she had to, and kept her balance as the world around her became a blur of crashing stones and choking debris.

  She couldn’t stop shaking. Terror deeper than first coming face to face with the mighty Hexabulous struck primal. Warm dampness trailed down her legs while dread wracked her heart.

  Yet Ol’ Nan’s wry brogue surfaced through the darkness: “Gracie, when ye swim wit’ sharks, don’t be cryin’ yer wee head off after they eat ye!”

  She stifled a whimper.

  Not going to disappoint Nan. Not today.

  Even as everything fell apart around her in catastrophic violence, she turned her mind’s eyes on the Wyrm one more time.

  Perhaps it was defiance—or curiosity—but when Grace gazed into the Wyrm’s depthless soul (now awake), the darkness stared back: vast, ancient, born before even Taevayleen’s glimmer first sparked—a darkness that was a grief so twisted it had swallowed the abyss into itself. Hell was here, it lived amongst them—crying eternal inconsolable tears that wanted to drown them all.

  The revelation crashed like the tide.

  She had known the Blanched were bad men and their god, a evil thing, but now she truly understood their nature and the blackened heart of the thing that had made them.

  The Wyrm kept moving—Earth cracking in resonant booms as it gave way. Foundations heaved as the colossal monstrosity ascended, dragging its hidden bulk upwards. Alabaster raining like brittle tears.

  Grace clung desperately to a slick fold of the horror, carried inexorably into the first glimpse of shattering light coming from above; the first sight of the outside.

  She would have been overjoyed; had she not been so overcome with utter fear.

  Impossibly, she spotted the fractal cage tumbled in the upheaval—Keigael within, his insane laughter bubbling forth like a mad herald’s ode to the end of the world.

  The First Temple birthed its Sorrow-God in a ruinous explosion.

  Grace hung on as they came to the surface, the priest’s mad cackling trailing at her back.

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