A quiet chuckle rippled through the room. Even Kael, usually the most reserved, smiled.
Nethran exhaled, shifting slightly. “For months, we’ve listened to the Elders argue, sitting in on their endless debates, and what do we have to show for it? Nothing. The problem isn’t getting better. They’re getting worse.” He tapped the runic map carved into the table, the veins of glowing light dim beneath his hand. “And now, whatever this is, it’s reached Lumora.”
The room quieted.
“That’s why I called this meeting. No Elders. No politics. Just us. So tell me. What the hell is actually happening out there?”
Elara of Ironridge was the first to speak. She leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table.
“You all know Ironridge depends on the mines,” she said. “The gems, the metals; we keep the trade alive. But the rivers we use to refine them? They’re turning thick,
clogging the tools, ruining the stones. And the creatures in the caverns, the ones we’ve coexisted with? They’re turning hostile. My miners are fighting off cave bats,clurichauns, and spirits instead of doing their damn jobs.”
Kael of Cailleach’s Keep let out a slow breath. “Our glacier rivers were once clean enough to drink from the source,” he said. “Now? Animals refuse to go near them. Elk, the foxes, even the vultures won’t go near it. The ones that drink it, die. If this keeps up, by spring, the meltwater will poison the entire region. The lowlands won’t stand a chance.” He hesitated, then added, “And we’re seeing more activity. Fairy mounds where they shouldn’t be. Creatures slipping through the Veil. With Samhain approaching, it’s only getting worse.”
Finnian of Glenn na Mara, normally the most laid back of them, rubbed the back of his neck. His blue eyes flickered with worry.
“The ocean’s wrong,” he muttered. “The trade routes are unpredictable. Algae is spreading fast, and something is moving beneath the waters, too big to be anybeast we know of. Sailors whisper about shadows large enough to capsize ships. And then there’s the singing.” He hesitated. “It happens at night. A melody, it calls to the people. And the ones who follow it don’t come back.”
Aedon of the Hollow, the youngest among them, finally leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
“The Hollow’s never been safe,” he admitted. “But now? It’s worse. The mist never lifts. My best scouts, hunters who have lived in those woods their whole lives, are vanishing. We find their tracks leading in, but never out. And the creatures…” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “They aren’t the same. The Unseelie Court is riding with the Wild Hunt. Farmers are losing livestock. Hunters come back with wounds that don’t heal, if they make it back at all.”
Nethran let their words settle, his expression unreadable.
“This isn’t just a sickness. It’s spreading. It’s not stopping.”
Elara shook her head. “We can’t keep pretending this is something we can handle alone. If we don’t start working together, we’re going to lose.”
Kael gave a curt nod. “If the water goes, everything goes with it. We need a plan. Now.”
Finnian’s gaze flicked to Nethran. “And what about the elders? What have they told you?”
Nethran’s jaw tensed. “Nothing useful.” His gaze swept the room. “That’s why we’re here. We know these lands better than anyone else. If we actually work together, we might figure out what ties all of this together.”
Aedon tilted his head slightly. “And how do you expect us to do that?”
Nethran leaned forward, resting his hands flat on the table.
“We stop acting like separate Circles,” he said. “We share actual information, weekly reports, direct and unfiltered. No more secrecy. No more politics.”
One by one, the leaders nodded. Talk shifted to the festival, only three weeks away. A rare moment of unity, even as unease loomed over them.
Before the meeting ended, Nethran’s voice steadied. “Patrols stay tight. I expect officers from every Circle at the festival. And I expect them to keep it safe.”
One by one, the leaders rose, murmuring among themselves as they left. Nethran lingered, staring down at the glowing map. Whatever was coming, it was already here.
Chapter 18
Kelpie’s Song
As the Festival of Light approached, unease settled over Lumora. Whispers, carried by merchants and farmers in hushed tones, circulated through the markets and taverns. The townspeople found a goat dead in its pen, with its lips stained as if with soot. Near the forest’s edge, a fox lay sprawled, its eyes clouded and leaking a black substance that soaked into the ground. Birds swerved erratically in the sky, some plummeting to the earth lifeless. Though The Circle documented each occurrence, they couldn’t determine the cause. The elders attributed the events to illness, even as the air grew heavy with each patrol.
The town continued its preparations. Lanterns adorned the eaves, vibrant silks decorated windows, and the air filled with the scent of perfumes. To bless the celebration and ward off ill fortune, people polished theirsacred bowls and carefully etched runes onto their rims. As preparations reached their peak, a few Circle members were dispatched from Lumora. Their mission: to travel to Glenn na Mara, the coastal port a day’s ride away, to procure supplies that the town lacked. These included offerings from distant lands, intricately woven silks, and artifacts brought by seafaring ships. Sorcha, Riona, and Rhosyn volunteered readily, their minds equally focused on the mission and the prospect of new festival dresses. Commander Nethran, cautious of their eagerness, assigned Eirin and Emry to join them. Eirin was to ensure the mission’s focus, while Emry’s expertise in artifacts made him a logical choice for the trip.
“This way,” Nethran had told Emry with a pointed look, “there’s better odds if anything happens.”
The group departed at first light. Soft glow of dawn barely kissed the horizon as they left Lumora’s gates behind. The air was crisp and quiet, save for the soft clatter of hooves and the rustling of saddlebags. Sorcha stifled a yawn as she stretched in the early morning sun.
