And then we move.
The forest swallows us whole, darkness closing around the formation like a fist clenching. The silence between heartbeats stretches until every sound becomes amplified, the crunch of frost beneath boots, the whisper of Coil’s scales against frozen undergrowth as he flows south in basilisk form, the barely audible shift of Thorn’s trees repositioning themselves overhead like guards lining a fortress edge.
Scar disappears, his form dissolving into the shadows between one blink and the next, and then Wreck follows with that unsettling quality of movement that suggests he isn’t so much moving through space as simply choosing to existsomewhere else, footsteps making no sound whatsoever despite the frost-bitten ground.
We reach the ridge in four minutes.
Light bends first, silver threading through the trees where there should only be shadow, then the undergrowth shifts as if stirred by a single, shared will. Figures peel free of bark and leaf, stepping out of the tree line as though they were never behind it at all, but part of it, grown rather than arrived.
The fae emerge in a tide of silver and green, movement too fluid, too precise, their inhuman grace setting teeth on edge. Beauty clings to them like a weapon, crafted to disarm as much as deceive. Blades catch the light as they move, enchantments rippling along their edges, magic so old it hums in the air, older than kingdoms, older than the names mortals gave them.
They don’t rush us.
They don’t need to.
They spread across the ridge with effortless coordination, sealing off retreat as neatly as a closing hand.
The forest goes still.
And it’s immediately clear we didn’t stumble into them.
They let us.
Silver and green armor gleams as the Seelie Prince’s warriors step fully into view, polished and precise, every movement measured, disciplined, beautiful in the way predators often are. I count without thinking, cataloging positions, weapon types, the subtle weight shifts that mark veterans from those still eager enough to be dangerous—thirty-two of them.
One fae breaks formation. He moves with deliberate slowness, dragging the moment out, boots crunching softly against frost-dusted stone. His silver leaf-shaped helmet comes off with a smooth twist of his wrist, revealing features carved sharp and elegant, his white eyes bright with contempt as they sweep over us.
“You arrive loudly,” he says, voice carrying easily across the ridge. “Engines roaring, blades bared, as if intimidation passes for diplomacy.”
Ruckus tilts his head, gold glinting faintly as luck bends around him. “We like to be heard.”
The fae snorts softly. “You like to pretend that you matter.” His gaze shifts back to me, lingering and assessing. “You trespass on seelie land. You disrupt our patrols. You break wards older than your club, older than your name.” A thin smile curves his mouth. “Andnow… you stand here expecting restraint?”
Scar’s lips twitch. Wreck’s shadows press closer while my dragon begs to be set free.
“Your warriors carved claims intomyterritory,” I say calmly. “That wasyourchoice.”
A ripple moves through their ranks, tight and controlled, but unmistakable. Blades rise a fraction while magic stirs. The fae takes another step forward, close enough now that I can smell moon-forged metal and old enchantments.
“Yourterritory,” he repeats softly, amused. “You rule snow, stone, and frightened mortals who kneel because they don’t know any better. This mountain belonged to the Seelie Court before your kind learned to build roads.”
“I don’t care who owned it first,” I reply. Frost creeps along the ground at my feet, ice threading through cracks in the stone. “I care who bleeds for it now.”
Behind me, the club moves as one, small adjustments, shared grins, a collective readiness that says they heardexactlywhat I meant.
“You mistake restraint for fear, dragon,” the fae says, his voice dropping, his white eyes burning bright. “We’veallowedyou to exist because it merely amused us.”
Ruckus chuckles. “Shit reason, pixy.”
The fae’s attention snaps to him, irritation flashing. “You should leash your mongrels.”
Scar bares his teeth, and I step forward in one measured pace. “Then stop allowing,” I say evenly. “Correct me.”
For a breath, just one, it feels like pride and protocol might drag this into a stalemate.
The fae’s smile widens instead, cruel and pleased. “Gladly.”
The fae whips his blade toward my throat with enough speed to blur even my enhanced vision, the silver edge singing as it slices through frozen air. I don’t dodge so much as redirect, ice surging from my forearm in a jagged shield thick enough to catch the blow and shatter the weapon at its midpoint, shards spinning away into the dark like broken teeth.
