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kopfkino-o · 2 months

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The Seer's Stone - Chapter 6 (Az POV)

Summary: Azriel is being pushed to his limits, driven half-mad by his increased workload, Koschei’s recent movements, and the unaddressed feelings still hanging between him and Elain. His mind is at war with himself, thoughts and regrets constantly battling with him, but when an old acquaintance comes calling he feels compelled to answer, bound by loyalty and duty he sets off to find what very well might be his own damnation.

Pairing: Elain x Azriel

Timeline: Post-ACOSF

Wordcount: 1970

Read:

Chapter One | The Crone’s Trade

Chapter Two | The Oracle of Seraphyros

Chapter Three | Last of Our Kind (Azriel)

Chapter Four | An Empty Seat

Chapter Five | Death and the Lovely Fawn - UPDATED

Author’s Note: Hope you all enjoy! More below 💋

PHEW! After several months of insanity (see: moving to a new city, taking on several new projects at my day job as a graphic designer, getting engaged, traveling to Europe to be in a friend's wedding, hurting my knee again (rip lmao), and the general chaos of being alive) I am so excited to be back writing again. And even more excited to share this latest chapter of the Seer's Stone with the world.

Writing took a back seat within my life last year, due impart to the aforementioned chaos, but also due to some personal anxieties I had about sharing my work. It's irrational, I know, writing is writing, art is art! But still, I found myself lacking confidence and facing a ton of writer's block, but I found some new inspiration through my professional creative work, had a few friends that really helped to cheer me on, and had a lot of downtime after my knee surgery to think about and play around with my craft. All that being said, I'm really really glad to be back at it and revisiting this story, and learning through writing fanfiction.

My plans for the fic haven't changed (too much), but I do think I ought to note that I made some edits to the last update, Chapter Five | Death and the Lovely Fawn, that I feel like I just needed to make to provide clarity/build up for the direction of the story.

Lastly, I just wanted to say thank you to the folks who reached to me about this fic even when I wasn't actively updating it and offered me support/encouragement. This meant so so much to me, more than you all probably know, and I just wanted to say thanks for that.

This one's for you guys.

xoxo, Court

There was a building headache in Azriel's temples.

Every beat of his heart reverberated through his skull like a war drum. Azriel worked his jaw, grinding his teeth. There had always been something about the dank darkness of the Hewn City that pressed down on him like a fist, but the hateful place was particularly grating tonight.

Wrong, his shadows murmured, this place is wrong

"Hush," he snapped back at them, in no mood for their whisperings.

The floor shifted underfoot, and the long, stone passageway changed before his eyes, writhing as if it were a living thing. To anyone else, the illusion might have been nauseating, but these tunnels and their strange enchantments had become second nature to him during the time he served beneath Rhysand's father.

The old High Lord had personally keyed the spells into the oily stone walls to prevent his captives from ever learning the true layout of the tunnel system. And, perhaps, to also remind them they were so far beneath the earth they could only dream of feeling the warmth of the sun on their faces again.

He had been cruel like that.

Azriel rounded a bend in the stone and found himself in another long hallway carved directly into the mountain. Only this hallway was lined with ancient, half-rusted cell doors—cells that housed the worst of the Night Court's filth. Or at least, what was left of them.

Halfway down the corridor, Feyre and Amren were waiting for him outside one of those cells, the High Lady and her second-in-command half-concealed in shadow, their whispered voices echoing queerly off the rock walls.

Both females fell silent when they caught sight of him. Something twisted in Azriel’s gut. For them both to be here, in the dead of the night, with Nyx still so young and Varian here in Velaris on a short respite from Adriata, meant something was wrong. The look on Feyre’s beautiful face only confirmed that. Something was very, very wrong.

“You’re late,” Amren snapped. It was as much a greeting as he’d get from her.

Azriel matched the second’s same cool indifference. “I was in the middle of something when you sent for me. I came as soon as I could.”

“Off again, doing only the Mother knows what? You don’t fool me, boy. I can smell the Continent on you.”

“I come, I go. So is the nature of my work.”

“Is it, now?”

“If you intend to suggest I’m up to something you disapprove of, then by all means, Amren, do so now and let us be done with it. I’m not here to indulge in idle banter.”

The second-in-command bared her teeth, smoke-gray eyes glowing like two torches amidst the gloom, and for half a heartbeat, Azriel thought she might press the matter.

Then Feyre stepped forward and cleared her throat. There were dark smudges of exhaustion beneath the High Lady’s eyes, but she still looked as regal as ever in her Illyrian leathers, her carved ashwood bow and a matching quiver of arrows peeking up over her armored shoulders.

“Enough, you two,” Feyre said, voice laced with nothing but command. She shot both Azriel and Amren a warning look before folding her tattooed hands behind her back, taking up the position of authority fitting of both a war commander and a queen. “We have bigger matters at hand, and I didn’t leave my infant son asleep at home with a nanny just to come here and listen to you bicker.” She nudged Amren with an armored elbow. “So, won't you be a dear and update our lovely Spymaster on the situation at hand?”

Amren shot him one last distrustful look before answering their High Lady's command. "We picked up two...stragglers...trying to make their way to the Prison Isle. From what we've been able to gather, it appears they were attempting to make their way inside the Prison itself."

Azriel's brows rose. Sneak onto the Prison Isle? That was not only impossible, but it was complete and utter madness. A sick, sudden realization shuddered through him, so fierce it cut through the pounding in his head.

Elain.

Elain was trying to get access to the Prison for reasons still unknown to him. Her and the spellspinner she'd tried so diligently to keep hidden in the Library.

Azriel's shadows had brought him word of their machinations weeks ago, initially tipped off by the arrival of the young spellspinner, and catching Elain in his bedroom yesterday had only confirmed his suspicions, but surely she hadn't gone against his warnings. Surely she hadn't...

"Something wrong, boy?" Amren crooned.

He ignored her. "Tell me everything," he said to Feyre.

"One male, one female. Both don't seem to hold any particular court alliance, but they were...dressed strangely. Almost as if they were trying to blend in with the Library's priestesses. Only their robes were gray, not white, and they carried no invoking stones." Feyre scrubbed a hand down her face. "Rhys caught the male on the beaches; I found the female still on the boat they'd used to reach the Isle."

Azriel might have sighed his relief if only Feyre's words weren't too much to stomach. Elain and her friends, and whatever wild plan they'd concocted, might be safe for now, but an unwelcome stranger trying to land on the Prison Isle was nothing to take lightly. And the fact Azriel, nor his shadows, had seen it coming rankled him.

"I tried to talk to her, wanted to know who she was, why she was there," the High Lady continued. "But she pulled a knife before I could get to her. I watched her open her own throat. Tried to heal her, but to no avail, little thanks to the poison on her blade." Feyre shook her head then tossed a thumb towards the cell door. "Rhys is inside with the male. He won't speak, though. He just keeps... singing."

"Singing?" Azriel echoed.

"He means to mock us," Amren murmured.

It was Feyre who ignored the second-in-command now. The High Lady tipped her head towards the cell door. "You'll see." She said. "We'll be waiting at the Riverhouse for your report."

And with that, Feyre reached a hand for Amren and winnowed them both away, leaving Azriel alone with his pounding head, the ancient black stone, and the iron door looming before him.

Azriel drew in a breath. Down, down, down he sank into himself before he strode for the cell door and shoved it open.

The sharp smell of blood and piss and fear arrested his senses as soon as he stepped into the dimly lit cell.

Old memories reared their ugly heads, taking him back to a different time where he came to these very cells to serve a far different lord. Truth-Teller warmed at his side, steadying him. Azriel wrapped a hand around the dagger's familiar hilt and shoved the memories back inside their iron cages to rot.

He made a quick sweep of the room when his eyes finally adjusted. Shadows clung to the corners of the narrow cell, dark enough to conceal his brother's powerful form hidden within them. Rhys was the darkness here. Anyone else might have missed him, but Azriel knew his brother's scent, the sound of his breathing, and marked where he stood in one of the shadowy corners.

In the center of the cell, bound and blindfolded, sat the captive. His gray robes were bloody, his lip split and broken, but he was singing just as Feyre had promised. Singing some horrible old song.

"...blue blood, red blood, blood black as a moonless night," the captive's voice echoed off the cell walls, garbled and made watery by his mouthful of broken teeth. "A pound of flesh, a pound of bone, a gift for a maiden made of light..."

Azriel's shadows swarmed. They flowed across the old stone floors to circle the captive like a pack of hungry dogs, writhing and twisting as they tried to make sense of him and his strange song. Almost as if the song had offended them. As if it scared them.

The darkness melted, and Rhys appeared from within it, arms crossed and brow furrowed, the mask of the High Lord in perfect place. Stars were dancing in his violet eyes, cold and unyielding, burning with a hunger Azriel himself knew all too well.

"He's been at it all night," Rhys said softly. "The same two verses of the same song, over and over again. It's driving me fucking mad."

"You scramble his brains or something?" Azriel asked.

"Would that I could. His mind is impenetrable. Practically walled off with solid obsidian. I've never seen anything like it."

"He's been prepped on how to face a Daemati, then."

"Or spelled to keep one out of his mind."

The words rose a chill within him, and Azriel found himself watching his brother more closely. Rhys worked a tick in his jaw, violet eyes churning as he assessed the battered man babbling his strange song.

"...away, away, at the crown of midnight..."

Azriel had never heard the tune before. Yet, it rankled him somehow. Dragged cold talons through his guts as if it were trying to make a home there.

Pain pricked behind his eyes, blooming like a thousand burning stars.

Azriel rolled his shoulders, fighting the headache, and drew in a deep breath of the rank air, descending deeper into that inside, readying himself for what was to come.

"He'll break," he said softly.

Rhys did not look at him as he replied. "I know."

Eventually, they exchanged the briefest, most fleeting of looks, but the silent words that passed between them meant everything. Rhys's eyes reminded him that Azriel did not have to do this. That he was, in fact, not his father's son. That this Night Court was a court of dreamers, of sons who were forgiven of the sins of their fathers, of daughters free to live as they pleased.

But the weight of duty had been taught to Azriel decades ago. And it was not a lesson so easily forgotten.

Skin slips easier off the smaller bones, blood congeals at the joints, and the mind always, always fractures first.

The old High Lord had taught him those things. Had made sure Azriel knew them, committed them to his memory so he might never forget his purpose. His worth. The thing he'd been made for.

Azriel slid Truth-Teller from its sheath. "Leave us," he said to his brother, voice soft as night. "I'll bring my report to the Riverhouse."

Rhysand put a gentle hand on his shoulder, the gesture made as if it might spare him, as if it might change what he was and the things he was born to do.

It wouldn't.

Azriel had stopped telling himself such follies a long, long time ago.

So he waited until his brother closed the cell door behind him. Waited until his shadows drank the last bit of light from the dank cell. Waited and listened as the prisoner whimpered the last verses of his swan song.

"...a sword for the son, a horn for the Queen, and dagger for their fool..."

Once, when he was just a boy, the shadows had taught him there was a place he could go, somewhere he could hide from his father's wrath, from his brothers' hate. Somewhere deep within himself. A place where he felt nothing, saw nothing.

Was nothing.

Azriel went to that place now, hiding somewhere deep within himself. He thought of roses as he raised Truth-Teller to the pale flesh of the prisoner's chest and began to cut.

Blood bloomed and the ache in Azriel's head erupted like a thunderclap.

And a dagger for the fool.

#the seer's stone #elriel fanfiction #the seer's stone fanfic #elriel

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 1 year

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"Back in 1826, a New York court convicted 21 year old Joseph Smith for being a disorderly person and con artist who tricked folks out of their money by claiming to find lost treasures with his magic seer stones…

And, less than a year later, he founded Mormonism by discovering some gold tablets that only he could read with his magic seer stones…

In a hat…"

Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum.

#mormon #mormonism #LDS church #Latter Day Saints #church of jesus christ of latterday saints #the church of jesus christ of latter day saints #joseph smith #conman #obvious fiction #seer stones #golden plates #religion is a mental illness

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stairnaheireann · 3 months

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Celts | Becoming a Seer

The gift of the ‘sight’ was highly valued by the Celts. But this gift could cause the possessor great sorrow, especially if he or she foresaw the death of someone close to them. On the other hand, the seer might be able to avert catastrophe after receiving a premonition of danger. The most famous see in Irish mythology was Fionn, whose name means ‘wise or knowing one’. It was said that he gained…

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#Celtic #Celts #Co. Cavan #Fionn mac Cumhaill&039;s Fingers #Ireland #Irish #Mythology #Seer #Shantemon mountain #Shantemon Stone Row

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orbital-inclination · 2 years

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Hello, what is the story of molten dreamtale?

Ok so, answering this took a lot of words. So I've hidden the great wall of text under the cut! I apologize in advance for the sheer length.

Molten!Dreamtale Summarized:

The Story of Molten!Dreamtale begins similarly to Dreamtale with a slight twist. Instead of one of the Negative Apples being corrupted, the positive side of the tree is cursed. (the events leading to this will be expanded on at a later date.) Dream and Nightmare’s childhood follows the events of Dreamtale closely. Dream’s kindness is taken advantage of while Nightmare is relentlessly bullied and shunned by the village. Gradually, Dream finds it harder to say no to what is asked of him. He spends less and less time guarding the tree with his brother. They grow distant and frustrated with each other.

One day, while Dream is sent away on an errand outside the villager, a group of humans and monsters approach the tree and demand apples from it. Their village had been suffering from a drought for months, and the Tree of Emotions, sacred as it may be, was the only thing bearing fruit. When Nightmare refuses, they turn violent.

To defend himself and the tree, Nightmare consumes one black apple but in the end he’s not able to protect himself in time. Dream returns just in time to take a blow that would have severely injured his brother. Barely clinging to consciousness, Dream bites into a golden apple for the same reason his brother had, unaware that side of the tree had been infected by a curse born of greed. The act of consuming the apple brands the curse onto Dream’s soul. He consumes more than one after that, unable to stop himself.

The bulk of the Story takes place centuries later, as Nightmare and Dream travel from au to au. Driven by guilt and a sense of responsibility, Nightmare is determined to find a way to get rid of the goop that Dream is covered in. Dream struggles with and attempts to hide his own demons. In the meantime, the pair work to archive balance in a multiverse that is over-saturated with positivity. The brothers are often viewed with ambivalence and sometimes outright hostility, both by the inhabitants of local AUs and sometimes by fellow outcodes.

Morality:

I know I’ve answered this before and I can’t find the post rn but I would define Molt as somewhere on the chaotic good-to-neutral scale. He will not hurt you unless he believes he has good reason to. (which is a rare situation. he will only do so as a last resort.) and when given the choice, he will pick the option he believes will benefit the most people in the long run. A more specific line of questioning would be:

“Does he have bad intentions?” No. “Will his actions occasionally cause conflict for others?” Yes. “Can Molt be viewed as the antagonist in someone else’s story?” Yes. “Can Molt also be viewed as heroic though? Isn't he a good guy in this AU?” Of course! It all depends on your perspective, but again, I consider Molt to be much closer to the Good side of the spectrum than Evil.

Keep in mind too, that like his counterpart, Molt can feel what you're feeling. It’s in his best interest to keep his company content. He has the power set of a temptress without the motivation behind it. He does not WANT you to fall victim to your vices but believes you will if he sticks around for too long.

But he is more selfish than canonical!Dream. His priorities are as follows: his brother’s extended family, himself, and the multiverse last. In his mind, the last dark apple is perfectly safe where it is. It's the rest of the multiverse that has problems.

On the Subject of Endings:

I don’t have a set of endings in mind right now. I’m still in the “build-up, flesh out, play around and find out” phase of the creative process but for the sake of this ask, I will throw a tart at the wall to give you an idea of what these endings could potentially look like. Consider these, dubiously canon, or canon adjacent.

Bad Ending 1: Consumed by the weight of corruption in the multiverse, Molt becomes delusional and loses his sense of self. He fatally wounds his brother during a heated argument (read: battle.) Once Molt comes back to himself and realizes what he’s done, he’s inconsolable. He refuses to take the dark apple for himself (and thus refuses to assume guardianship of both dark and light). Instead, he plants it in a desolate AU where he tasks the remaining “bad sanses” with guarding it.

Killer leaves the group and refuses to associate with Molt again.

Molt never forgives himself.

Bad Ending 2: Plays out like the first bad ending, but it’s Rem who fatally wounds his brother. Rem assumes guardianship of both aspects and plants the last golden apple in the courtyard of the AU he’s chosen to reside in. He carefully monitors the sapling and hopes that one day, Molt might reform under it. He waits for a long, long time.

Cross and Blue leave the group. They don’t come back.

Bad Ending 3: Ink teams up with Error to stop Molt for good. Molt is defeated, unable to defend himself against Ink and Error combined. Ink gives the last golden apple to Error to hold. He trusts no one else with it. Rem swears revenge.

Neutral Ending 1: Balance is achieved at a great cost. Molt’s body is shattered by a powerful enemy, but as a piece of him remains, he lives trapped in a state of limbo. His slayer traps his soul in a lantern and keeps it in a hidden place. Molt sleeps eternally. Aware, yet not aware of time passing.

Rem never gives up searching for him.

Bad Ending 4: Neutral Ending 1, but Rem is shattered instead. Molt has better luck finding his brother’s trapped soul. Overcome by the selfish desire to see those responsible suffer, he encourages them to fall victim to their own vices, one by one.

When Rem reforms, he almost doesn’t recognize his brother, so twisted Molt’s heart has become.

This is the closest we will get to an “Evil Molten!Dream”

Good Ending 1: Molt and Rem are able to achieve perfect balance in the multiverse. As a result, Molt regains his sight but is never cured of the goop. He learns to control it and he is happy. Rem decides to build his own library. Good Ending 2: Molt and Rem are able to achieve perfect balance in the multiverse. A cure for the goop is found at a price: Molt will never regain his sight. The brothers find peace and Molt takes up baking as a hobby.

Secret Comedic Ending: Rem dies so Molt begs Error for help. Error pulls a few strings and teams up with Geno to tag team Reaper. Paralyzed by the Bad Bitch Energy TM of Geno and Error combined, Reaper is helplessly unaware of the theft taking place. It’s only after Molt has successfully stolen back his brother’s soul and revived him, that Reaper realizes he’s been had but by then it’s too late. In a scene straight out of Mean Girls, Geno and Error mock him into submission while the brothers make their escape.

#moltendreams!au #molten!dream #orbital chatter #spoilers* technically #but also not bc these ideas are not set in stone just yet #think of it like youre a seer glimpsing a possible future in your tea cup #it could happen but might not #< i talk about possible endings

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bawdabaw · 7 months

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T-shirt meme trash comic part 1. This ended up being way more effort than I originally intended. Lot of inside jokes in this one.

#bawdadraws #my ocs #Simon #Cade #Holmgren #Liz Stone #unseelie #unseelie king #memes #digital art #online comic #sidhe-seer #wings #fiery #tshirt #artists on tumblr #blind #seer

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apostatement · 1 year

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Never forget that Joseph Smith saw this rock and was like “I bet I could use that to see demons and also have xray vision”

#exmo #exmormon #apostake #ex cult #apostate #I wanted my own seer stone as a kid sooooooo bad

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arosgay · 2 years

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#apex legends #obi edolasim #Lisa Stone #Seer

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bensonsballerz · 2 years

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but also… the way seer absolutely clammed up at lisa’s questions was heartbreaking. we have never seen him so vulnerable and tensed. he’s a performer, and many of them can mask their emotions to put on a show, but he just got so completely thrown off :(

#apex legends #apex #seer #obi edolasim #lisa stone

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camelliagwerm · 2 years

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These were not the questions given to me. My producer had some last minute notes.

BEHIND THE EYES: SEER

#gamingedit #apexlegendsedit #apexedit #seer #obi edolasim #apex legends #harper.gif #*apex #lisa stone can catch these HANDS

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thesilicontribesman · 2 years

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The Bone Necklace And Adornments Of A Prehistoric Seer (2100 to 1800BCE), Devizes Museum, Wiltshire, 'The World Of Stonehenge' Exhibition, The British Museum

#ice age #stone age #bronze age #copper age #iron age #prehistoric #prehistory #prehistoric jewellery #prehistoric living #bones #seer #status #ritual #relic #archaeology #Wiltshire

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almostlookedhuman · 5 months

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#universes beyond #mtg #lotr #denethor #stone seer #arda #anor-stone #biazotto

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kopfkino-o · 1 year

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The Seer’s Stone - Chapter One

Summary: Elain Archeron is tired of being the “lovely, sweet gardener” everyone wants her to be. After losing her beloved, her humanity, her life, she’s ready to claim her own path forward with the help of her friends, Nuala and Cerridwen, as she searches far and wide for the mysterious Seer’s Stone: an ancient artifact of old rumored to once belong to an ancient Seer Queen. But will fate itself step in to stop her? Or will Elain defy the strings of destiny that bind her and forge her own path forward, choosing her own fate, friendships, future, and love, along the way.

Pairing: Elain x Azriel

Timeline: Post-ACOSF

Word Count: 2680

Author’s Note: I am so excited to begin sharing this fic out with the world! I know I said I’d share this at the start of Elriel month, buttttt I have absolutely no self control lol. This is planned out to be a long-form fanficiton inspired by what I think would be cool to see for Elain’s journey. We’ll also get a lot of Azriel, Vassa, and Lucien in this story, along with appearances from a few other characters. Additionally, this is my first ever published fanfic and, as an aspiring author, I always want to encourage constructive feedback on anything I publish. Critiques? Send them my way! Writing advice? Hit me with it! Thanks for taking the time to read - Court <3

Catch Me Over on AO3 at Courtwritesalot.

Elain Archeron slipped down the back alleys and side streets of Velaris on silent feet, the pale sliver of the moon the only witness to her midnight movements, the low hum of summer insects her only companions. She stuck to the shadows, swift and silent as she followed the natural flow of the Sidra north through the city, the scrying stones in her pocket rattling softly with each step.

It wasn't lost on her that traveling along the Street of Silk up to the Old Square would have been a faster, more direct route, but Elain wasn't willing to risk it. Not tonight, not when Rita's was tucked amongst the other game halls and pleasure houses that occupied the narrow street. The last thing she needed was running into the likes of the Morrigan.

Or even worse, Amren.

As far as anyone knew, she was still tucked safely in her bed back at the Riverhouse fighting off another headache. Being caught anywhere else, especially at this hour, especially in this part of the city, would be damning.

Lying to her sisters and brothers-in-law earlier that evening hadn't been easy, as it so rarely was, but she excused the white lie as yet another necessary evil. She needed to get out from underneath their watchful eyes and there were only so many times she could blame a late-night departure into the city on a gardening emergency or a cooking class with the twins. So Elain blamed her early departure from family dinner on her head and retired to her bedroom where she waited in practiced silence for their conversations to grow more political, more focused, before winnowing out into the manor gardens.

She would have winnowed to her destination if the magic allowed it, but the gift of moving effortlessly through the world was still a foreign thing she didn't fully understand. She'd improved, yes, but still could only move short distances, even despite her weeks of training with the twins.

Soon, she promised herself, I will master it soon.

Elain was breathless by the time she reached the small, boarded-up antiquities store tucked away in one of Velaris's older neighborhoods. The Crone's Trade, the faded sign hanging above the front door read. She gathered the skirts of her traveling dress and darted up the cracked stone steps to the darkened storefront. A small "closed" sign hung on the door, but she knocked anyways, her knuckles beating out the secret code the old shopkeep taught her weeks ago.

A long silence punctuated only by the distant murmuring of the Sidra winding her way through the city settled all around her. Elain shifted anxiously on her feet. She wanted to get off the streets, wanted to get the scrying stones out of her pocket, but more than anything, she wanted a glass of firewine the twins loved so much, if only to steel her nerves.

There was so much depending on tonight, weeks of dedicated research and lying to her sisters, weeks of stretching herself thin in a desperate attempt to find answers. And tonight was the culmination, the final piece she needed to fall into place. It had to be perfect, she had to be—

The shop's ancient lock gave a metallic groan and the door cracked open.

Nuala's beautiful face appeared in the crack in the doorway, the wraith's dark eyes sweeping the street behind Elain before she straightened and greeted her with a lovely, full-lipped smile. She was dressed immaculately as always, draped all in smoke and sage that complemented her dark complexion. Silver charms accented her long fall of braids tonight, the little accessories shining like quicksilver beneath the moonlight.

"About time," Nuala said, voice rich and lovely. "We thought you changed your mind."

Elain offered a sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry I'm late, I got away as soon as I could. Nesta and Cassian were over for dinner tonight," she said. "You know how Feyre can be when it comes to family dinners. Especially now that the babe is here."

"No need for apologies, Lainey. You're here now, that's what matters."

Elain nodded. Right, no need for apologies when they weren't warranted. It was something she was trying to change, a habit she was trying to break, but old habits die hard and some days life at the Riverhouse made her feel as if her progress was... regressing.

A pang of guilt bloomed within her.

"Did anyone see you leave?" Nuala asked.

She shook her head. "I winnowed out, just like we planned."

"Good."

Her friend opened the door fully then and hurried Elain into the darkness beyond.

The inside of the Crone's Trade was warm, the air rich with the familiar scent of old books and aging leather and the faint, citrusy smell of spiced tea. Murky darkness shrouded the entirety of the shop floor, the few dying candles still burning in their sconces casting strange shadows along the many bookshelves and display cases that occupied the tight space.

Elain pushed back the hood of her cloak and smoothed the loose pieces of hair torn free from her long braid, readying herself. She was just about to ask Nuala where the others were when the soft murmur of feminine voices floated up to them through the gloom.

"The Sparrow?" She asked Nuala.

"Downstairs with Cerridwen, arguing about only gods know what. The two of them together are certainly something.”

Elain's heart all but stopped at the words. "I can't believe they're finally here."

"Come, she's eager to meet you."

"She?"

Nuala merely smiled and hooked an arm through hers.

The half-wraith steered them both through the dark labyrinth with graceful ease, her eyes able to see even in the depth of the Void itself, and together they rounded the front counter, passing beneath heavy velvet curtains into the slim stairwell that lay beyond. Elain could hear the voices more clearly there, not enough to make out their words but enough to discern between Cerridwen's voice and a high, accented voice she did not know.

The Sparrow.

Each step down to the private chambers on the floor below reverberated through Elain's chest, a booming tempo that matched her own hammering heart. She wasn't sure what information the treasure hunter discovered that warranted a trip all the way from the Continent, let alone what the woman looked like, nor her real name, but something in her bones told Elain it was important, something she could work with. Finally.

Nuala pushed open the cracked door and waved Elain in with a dramatic flourish.

She slid past her friend and stepped into the cozy space, her eyes watering at the bright light of the roaring hearthfire that gilded the room and the two women sitting within it.

Both fell silent when they noticed her.

Elain's eyes first fell on Cerridwen. The older of the two half-wraith twins was dressed in her usual leathers, her shoulder-length coils pushed back from her pretty face with an amethyst headband and her eyes lined with her signature sharp wing. A wicked, waved dagger was sheathed down her thigh and the ornate pommel of Cerridwen's sword peaked over her shoulders. A warrior ready for battle.

Then her gaze shifted to the young woman seated to the left of her friend.

Pretty, in an almost haunting way. Her hair was pale-blonde, her skin fair, and her heart-shaped face dusted with the faintest smattering of freckles. Even her clothes were pale, all shades of white and smoke and silver.

A silver Sparrow. Elain understood the codename now.

Their gaze met and the artificer cocked her head.

"The Fawn, I take it," She said, her voice high and lilting.

Elain inclined her head. "A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Sparrow."

"And you, yours." A ghost of a smile. "Elain Kingslayer."

The moniker fell on her shoulders like a stone. No one had ever called her that, least of all a stranger. Elain's guts twisted at the implication of the title, at the weight of what it meant. Murderer, life-taker, blood still drying on her hands. She shoved the memory back behind its iron gate before it had the chance to rise up and seize her.

Not now, not tonight.

Elain lifted her chin, channeling Nesta's iron-hard venom and Feyre's cunning wit.

"You feel free to name me Kingslayer, but not enough to share your true name with us," she said, "One might think we'd be entitled to such information after six months of exchanging letters."

The Sparrow laughed, the sound silvery and lovely, then rose from her seat and crossed the room on long, graceful legs. Nuala and Cerridwen watched the woman like a hawk, the former stepping closer toward Elain while the latter inched her fingers toward her knife. Whether the pale-haired artificer didn't notice, or simply didn't care, Elain wasn't sure, but the woman extended a hand either way and offered her a charming smile.

"Kalla," She said. "Kalla Valenholt."

The use of a family name snagged Elain's attention. A rare occasion, especially for the Fae. She tucked away the kernel of knowledge and accepted Kalla's offered hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Elain Archeron."

"She who bewitched the Cauldron and brought the King of Hybern to his knees," Kalla whistled, genuine admiration shining in her bright green eyes. "It is quite the honor, I must say. You're rather famous where I'm from."

It was no honor, but Elain wasn't going to tell a total stranger that. So instead, she asked, "And how is it you've come to know the nature of my true identity? We took great care to keep it a secret."

"Knowing is the nature of my work," Kalla replied, her tone casual, but those strange eyes must have caught the spark of self-doubt Elain could feel blooming within herself because the artificer added, "Seers are very rare things, both here in Prythian and back home on the Continent. I suspected who you might be when you first contacted me about your search for the Seer's Stone, but when you sent word telling me I could find you here in Velaris...well, I was able to put two and two together easily enough."

Elain wasn't sure what unnerved her more, the fact people actively knew, and spoke, of her on the Continent or the ease with which her identity had been uncovered. She would have to be more careful moving forward.

Kalla cocked her head and gestured to the empty seats before the hearth. "Shall we?"

"Let's," Elain replied with a smile.

Elain took up the seat Cerridwen had abandoned in favor of watching from the nearest pocket of shadow, ever the loyal sentry. Kalla reclaimed her seat before the hearth while Nuala poured them all a cup of spiced tea before draping herself over a nearby chaise.

Then they began.

Kalla first withdrew a thick packet of research notes from her pack that the women all passed around between them after thumbing through them quickly. Then the artificer withdrew a single tome from her bag and set the book gently, almost reverently, down on her lap. Relics and Lost Items of the Hero's Age, the title read. Elain glanced wearily toward her friends, but both twins were studying the book as if it were their next target.

Then Kalla blew out a long breath and started on her story.

"I went almost immediately to the Fae Archives after you first made contact with me to scour the collection for any mention of a milky gray stone imbued with the power of divination. Weeks of searching and I only came across a few leads, some more promising than others, but none with descriptions that matched what you described from your vision. At least, not until I came across this." Kalla tucked a strand of hair behind an arched ear and opened her book, flipping through the pages until she came across whatever it was she was looking for. Another loosed breath, another ghost of a smile. Then she lifted her eyes and met Elain's gaze. "I'm going to show you something and I want you to tell me if there's anything you recognize about these objects. Anything at all, a sliver of memory, a flash of another vision. Anything."

Elain could only manage a weak nod. Her heart was in her throat, pounding so fiercely she was certain the other women could hear it hammering against her ribs. Then Kalla passed the book to her and that thundering heart skipped a beat.

She stared down at the detailed drawing of the long, wooden staff crowned with a milky white crystal as she felt time slow around her. Her skin prickled at the sight of it, so familiar, that stone. That staff. She reached out and traced her fingers along it, studying the make of the weapon, the ornate carvings etched into its dark shaft. It was decorated with ornate carvings of twinning vines and twisting whorls and strange, foreign markings that made her stomach twist, all of them flowing upwards to the crystal fixed at the tip.

A crystal she knew all too well.

Elain blinked and the world fell away.

A ring of fire burning beneath a black tower. A white flower blooming upon a field of ash, whispers of an old promise murmured along the breeze. Stone knights standing watch around an altar, rusted spears clenched tight in ancient hands, unseeing eyes weeping tears of black ichor.

A crystal blooming bright, calling, singing.

Desperate letters sent out on white wings. A great stag standing amongst a forest made of ash. A falling star, red and everlasting. She will come, she will open doors within the stone. Old hands, young hands, a maiden's hands scrubbing blood from a white dress. Find her, find me, find him.

The crystal singing, singing, singing—

Elain blinked again.

Everyone was staring at her, still waiting for her to speak. Her cheeks heated at the realization and Elain turned her head to quickly wipe away the small trickle of blood leaking from her nose. Both the twins noted the movement anyways, too skilled in the art of observant not to, Culdron boil them.

Cerridwen casually peeled away from the wall to come and stand beside her while Nuala placed a gentle hand on Elain's knee.

"We don't have to continue if it's too much," Whispered the former.

The latter nodded her head in agreement. "There's always tomorrow. We can always try again—"

No.

She would not give up on this, she would not wait another day. She had been plagued by visions of this strange stone, that dark forest clearing and burning red star, for weeks now. They sang to her along the breeze, they called to her through the stones. They, whatever they were, were beckoning to her and, Cauldron spare her, Elain was determined to rise in answer. Determined to do something for herself, to prove she was capable of being strong, of being brave, of being more than just sweet, pretty little Elain.

So she slipped her hand into her pocket and collected the scrying stones still hidden there. She ignored the strange look the twins gave her and pushed up from her seat, moving to the coffee table where she dropped the stones one by one onto the worn surface, each falling with a soft plink. Then she fixed Kalla with a look even Nesta would have balked from.

"Find me a map."

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