Chapter Text
The bell above the door offered a single chime as Owena stepped inside, a sound that seemed to hang in the air long after the heavy oak door had clicked shut behind her. The shop was a relic, tucked away in a cobblestone alley of the quiet British town. It smelled of dried lavender, crushed mint, and the faint, resinous tang of ancient cedar.
Owena ran a hand through her shoulder-length, wavy dark blonde hair, brushing it back from her face. She wore a practical gray sweater and denim jeans. The old floorboards groaned under her boots as she walked around the shop looking at the shelves. Every surface was crammed with the detritus of ages: jars of iridescent powders, wooden boxes filled with desiccated herbs, and the occasional potted plant whose leaves shimmered with an unnatural, vibrant hue. The shop was a labyrinth, a physical manifestation of the secrets it held.
She traced a finger over the scarred countertop, feeling the deep grooves etched by decades of use.
“Early today, Owena.”
The voice was soft, carrying the weight of years. Adelaide emerged from the back room, her silvery hair swept into a severe bun that accentuated the sharpness of her features. Round glasses perched on her nose, magnifying eyes that had seen too much. She wore a simple green dress, the color of moss in deep shade, making her seem less a woman and more a fixture of the shop itself.
“I have something important to take care of,” Owena replied, meeting the herbalist’s gaze.
Adelaide moved behind the counter, her movements slow and deliberate. She shifted a jar of dried newt eyes, the contents rattling like tiny, brittle dice. “You’re always in such a rush, like so many your age. One day, you’ll learn to savor each passing moment as I do. But I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you.”
Owena’s stomach tightened. “What is it?”
“The lead turned out to be false again. The book I mentioned was a forgery. Someone wrote it in the 19th century — probably as a prop for some wealthy club that enjoyed playing at magic.”
“That’s disappointing,” Owena sighed. “I’m sorry you had to waste your time on rubbish because of me.”
Adelaide waved a dismissive hand, a small, sad smile touching her lips. “Don’t apologize. Thanks to you, I still get out of this place and stay connected to the world. What else are you searching for in our little town, if I may ask?”
Owena hesitated. “It’s… connected to my work as the Guardian. I can’t tell you much — I don’t want to put you in danger.”
“Fair enough.” The old woman adjusted her glasses, her expression shifting to one of deep concern. “I just hope you’re not trying to handle everything alone.”
“I’m not. I arranged to meet Loranir. He should already be waiting for me in the market square.”
The old lady’s face fell, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Loranir… poor soul.” She wiped her glasses on the hem of her dress, a nervous habit. “Has he come to terms with his loss?”
“No. He hasn’t, even though he claims otherwise. It all happened so quickly. He lost not just his sister but his entire race — a people he never truly got to know.”
Adelaide’s gaze turned sharp. “My offer still stands. I can prepare the potion of forgetfulness for him. Brewed with water from the river Styx, a touch of Lethe’s bloom. He wouldn’t remember the pain, the emptiness. He could live a quiet life.”
“No.” Owena’s voice was firm, though gentle. “Loranir still has hope of finding his sister, and I won’t take that away from him.”
“Hope can be a cruel thing, Owena. A chain that binds the soul to suffering.” Adelaide’s voice was laced with a wisdom that felt ancient. “Perhaps you’re doing him more harm by letting him hold on.”
Owena looked away, toward the jars of glowing moss on the shelf. She knew the old lady wasn't wrong, but the thought of stripping Loranir of his last motivation felt like a betrayal. He was the last of his kind, a man of the dark Tylwyth Teg.
“I need to go,” Owena said, turning back to the door. “Loranir is probably getting impatient.”
Adelaide didn't argue. She simply nodded, her expression softening into one of quiet, maternal worry. “Take care, Owena.”
The bell chimed again as Owena stepped back out into the cool air, the sound lingering in the small space. Behind her, Adelaide remained still, staring at the empty doorway, her hand resting on a jar of stardust as if seeking comfort from its cold, glittering surface.
The cobblestones were still damp, holding the memory of the morning dew in their uneven hollows. Owena’s boots made a soft, rhythmic sound against the stone as she stepped into the town square. It was a modest space, but one that breathed an air of forgotten grandeur. The early hour had left it mostly deserted, save for the baker sweeping the front of his shop with lazy strokes and a ginger cat stretching languidly atop a stack of wooden crates. The surrounding townhouses, their facades faded by time and relentless weather, seemed to lean inward, their windows like half-closed eyes. Vines snaked up the brickwork, framing arched doorways that looked more like mouths waiting to swallow than entrances to homes. In the center of the square stood a jarring anomaly: a contemporary sculpture of twisted bronze. It resembled a chaotic swirl of tangled roots and the wings of a mythical creature frozen mid-flight. The weak sunlight caught its polished surface.
Owena’s gaze lingered on the sculpture only for a moment before settling on the figure standing beside it. It was him - Loranir.
He stood unnervingly still. His pale complexion was stark against the dark, polished leather of his jacket. Long black hair fell over his shoulders, partially obscuring the pointed tips of his elven ears. His eyes — sharp, intelligent, and perpetually wary — scanned the square with the practiced vigilance of someone who had learned that danger rarely announced itself.
Owena quickened her pace.
“Are you ready to go?” Loranir asked as she approached.
“Yes… I brought my sword.” She shifted the weight of her pack, allowing the leather-wrapped hilt to protrude from the top.
“Good.” He nodded. “We’ll be hunting one of those who killed the previous Guardian. She’s been spotted in a nearby town. She’s an anomaly in this reality, which means we’ll be able to track her whenever she uses her abilities.”
Owena frowned, skepticism tightening the corners of her mouth. “I can’t sense magic from miles away. Neither can you.”
“Exactly,” Loranir replied. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. “But from the Nexus, every place is equally close. We’ll wait there until our Tylwyth Teg decides to show herself.”
“The Nexus…” Owena’s expression darkened. “I thought we’d avoid that. I hate that place.”
“You’ll have to get used to it,” Loranir said, his tone softening only a fraction. “For now, you’re the only one who can travel through it. It rejects even Marcon.”
“I know,” she replied. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I just said I don’t like it.” She cast a wary glance around the square, catching the curious stare of a shopkeeper across the way. “Let’s find a quiet alley. I don’t want some random tourist stumbling into the portal by accident.”
Loranir gave a curt nod, his gaze sweeping the square one last time before he turned on his heel. He moved with a fluid grace, leading Owena toward a narrow, dimly lit side street. The alley was a cut of shadow between two towering brick buildings, smelling of damp earth and old rain. The noise of the square faded instantly, replaced by a heavy silence.
“Here,” Loranir said, stopping near a wall where the mortar had crumbled away, leaving a rough, pitted surface.
Owena dropped her pack to the ground and knelt, unzipping a side pocket. She pulled out a small, flat disc of obsidian etched with silver runes that seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light. She placed it against the rough brick, and the air around them immediately grew heavy, charged with static.
“Close your eyes,” she instructed, though she knew he wouldn’t. He never did.
She pressed her palm flat against the stone. The sensation was always the same — a violent lurch, like falling from a great height, followed by a suffocating pressure that squeezed the breath from her lungs. The world didn't just vanish; it was torn away.
When Owena opened her eyes, the alley was gone. They stood in a space that defied geometry. The Nexus was a void of shifting greys and muted silvers, a non-place where the laws of physics took a holiday. There were no walls, no sky, only a swirling, pearlescent mist that coiled around their ankles. The silence here was absolute, a vacuum that swallowed sound before it could form.
Owena shivered. The cold here wasn't just a drop in temperature; it was a cold that felt like it was leaching the warmth from her very soul.
“Focus,” Loranir’s voice cut through the silence. He stood a few feet away, his dark form the only solid thing in the shifting haze. “She will move soon. The moment she draws on the ley lines, we will see the ripple.”
Owena nodded, forcing herself to breathe evenly. She hated the way time felt stretched and thin here. Seconds could feel like hours, and hours could collapse into a single heartbeat. She closed her eyes, not to shut out the void, but to better visualize the map of the islands she held in her mind.
“Do you see it?” Loranir asked after a time that might have been minutes or days.
Owena didn’t answer immediately. She let her senses drift, riding the currents of the Nexus. Then, she saw it — a flicker of blue light in the distance, a tear in the fabric of the grey.
“There,” she said, opening her eyes and pointing. “East of the town we visited recently. She’s using a transport spell.”
Loranir’s eyes narrowed. “Then we move.”
Owena reached out, grabbing his arm. The leather of his jacket was cool and smooth. The violet ripple expanded, turning into a jagged tear in the air. Through the tear, Owena saw a flash of a desolate street market. And in the center of it, a young woman with hair as blue as the clear sky.
“Elenaril,” Loranir whispered.
The woman in the vision turned her head. For a split second, her blue glowing eyes seemed to lock onto Owena through the fabric of reality.
“She knows we’re looking for her,” The blonde breathed.
“Good,” Loranir said. “It makes the chase more interesting.”
He stepped toward the violet tear, the swirling mist of the Nexus parting before him like water before a ship’s prow. Owena grabbed her pack, hoisted it onto her shoulder, and followed. They stepped through the tear, leaving the grey silence of the Nexus behind. They had arrived. And the hunt had begun.
The morning mist hovered over the town market’s fountain. On the stone wall bordering the water sat a young woman. Her hair was a cascade of vibrant blue, falling over shoulders of pale, almost translucent skin. She wore a sea-green dress that rippled with the faintest breeze, a mirror to the element she commanded. She did not move, save for the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Her gaze was fixed on the water’s surface, where the morning sun painted the gentle ripples in strokes of gold. Then, with a lift of her right hand, the serenity shattered. The water responded to her will. The ripples smoothed instantly, replaced by intricate, rhythmic patterns that spiraled outward. The trees surrounding her remained motionless, a sign that this fluid artistry was not the work of nature, but of the elvish girl alone. A faint smile touched her lips as the water began to dance. Great streams of liquid defied gravity, rising into the air. They twisted and writhed, taking on the shapes of serpents. These were not monstrous beasts, but elegant, coiling guardians of liquid. They spiraled around their creator, protective and mesmerizing. Finally, Elenaril stood. Droplets of water, flung from the dancing serpents, splashed onto her porcelain face like cold jewels.
Hidden within the tree line at the edge of the market, two figures watched.
“It’s beautiful,” Loranir murmured, his voice a low rumble of awe tinged with a lingering melancholy.
“It’s breathtakingly beautiful,” Owena agreed, though her tone was heavy with a sadness. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, her eyes never leaving the scene. “Are you certain she’s our target? Looking at her creation, it’s hard to believe she isn’t gentle at heart.”
“A gentle heart does not preclude what she truly is,” Loranir replied. “According to Marcon, this is Elenaril. A Changeling, part of the group responsible for the death of the previous Guardian of the Liminal Zone.”
Owena lowered her gaze. “So it’s her…” she whispered.
Loranir nodded. “Yes. She has been bound to water magic since birth. But beneath that beautiful face lies a dangerous being.”
Owena reached into her backpack and retrieved the hilt of a sword. It was a simple, unadorned grip of dark metal. She closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent incantation. The air around her hummed with power. With a flash of blinding light, a blade materialized from the hilt, its surface alive with glowing runes that pulsed with a soft, white light. Simultaneously, Loranir raised his hands. The air temperature plummeted. A frigid wind, unnatural and sharp, swept across the square, directed solely at Elenaril’s watery forms. The liquid serpents froze mid-motion, their graceful coils instantly transformed into intricate, fragile sculptures of ice.
Elenaril’s smile vanished. Her gaze fell upon her frozen art, and her breath hitched. Tears welled in her eyes, shimmering like the water she commanded. She clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white against her pale skin. Then, she turned sharply, her eyes locking onto the two figures emerging from the trees.
“Who dares?” she hissed, her voice laced with pain and raw anger. “Who are you? What have you done to my art?!”
“I am the Guardian of the Liminal Zone, and this is my protector,” Owena announced, her voice steady. She raised the glowing blade slightly. “You are accused of murdering the previous Guardian. Together with your allies, you killed her in cold blood, even though she hadn’t used magic for years.”
Elenaril straightened, her posture rigid with indignation. Her eyes, the color of a stormy sea, burned with fury. “I didn’t kill her! It’s true I was there when she died, but it wasn’t me. It was Amadee’s spells that killed her! And... that monstrous child! I’m not with them anymore. I want nothing to do with that world! I just want to admire the beauty of this place…”
Loranir glanced at Owena, a silent conversation passing between them in a single, shared look. He placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of both support and caution.
“Even if what you say is true, you are an anomaly here,” Owena declared. “I have to send you back to Annwn.”
“Who gave you that right?!” Elenaril took a step toward them, her voice shaking with emotions. Her gaze darted between them. “Maybe start with your own companion! Don’t you see who he is? He’s a Dark Tylwyth Teg! Just like me! His place is in Annwn, not here!”
“Enough!” Owena’s voice rose. “I won’t speak to a murderer! Whether directly or not, you contributed to her death by taking on the Queen Mab’s task!”
Elenaril’s face twisted in a pure fury. The grief for her art curdled into rage. With a sharp, violent gesture, she lashed out at one of the frozen fountains, the ice shattering under the force of her will. Water surged from the broken form, a torrent aimed directly at Owena. Loranir reacted instantly. He thrust his hands forward, and a concentrated snowstorm erupted from his palms, meeting the water stream in mid-air. The torrent was instantly neutralized, transformed into a gentle flurry of snowflakes that drifted harmlessly to the ground.
“Do you think I had a choice?!” Elenaril screamed, her composure finally breaking. “I was created to serve the Faerie court, just as your companion was born to serve Sallos! Tell her if she can’t understand it herself!” She turned her piercing gaze directly onto Loranir.
Owena didn’t have time to respond. The massive ice sculpture that trapped the remaining water under Elenaril’s control began to vibrate violently. A high-pitched whine filled the air, culminating in a deafening crash as the ice exploded. Shards flew like shrapnel, and a thick mist of water erupted outward, drenching both Owena and Loranir.
When the downpour ended, the square was silent save for the dripping of water. Elenaril was gone — vanished amidst the remnants of her shattered, magical artistry. Owena stood soaked. Loranir bent down, picking up the sword that had fallen from Owena’s grasp during the chaos. He wiped the water from its surface with his sleeve before turning to her.
“Let’s go home. I need to change!” she said through gritted teeth, her body shivering slightly in the sudden cold.
“You’ll have to use the Nexus,” Loranir noted, his voice calm despite their soaked state.
“No,” Owena replied. “We’ll hitchhike. But only after we dry off — I don’t want to scare people.”
The ruins of the old church stood like a broken tooth at the forest’s edge, a place where the map frayed and the modern world surrendered to the ancient. Marcon approached it not as a tourist, but as a pilgrim to a forgotten altar. The shadows of the surrounding woods stretched long and possessive over the weathered stone. The church itself, though ravaged by centuries, retained a skeletal majesty. Moss painted its wounds in shades of emerald and gray, and the archway above the entrance gaped like the maw of a slumbering beast, daring the bold to enter. The rusted iron gate shrieked as Marcon pushed it open. He paused, his hand raised in a fluid, practiced motion. The air around him shimmered, a brief distortion of reality as he wrapped himself in a veil of arcane energy — a necessary precaution. Stepping across the threshold, the atmosphere shifted.
Sunlight, dying in the west, pierced the vaulted ceiling through holes left by rot and decay. The beams fell like spears, illuminating swirling motes of dust and the faint, ghostly outlines of frescoes that had once depicted saints and martyrs. Now, they were mere suggestions of color, faded memories on stone. The forest outside provided a somber orchestra: the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of a hawk, and the low, mournful hoot of an owl. Marcon’s eyes, however, were fixed on the floor. To an ordinary eye, it was debris-strewn flagstone; to him, it was a map. Faint symbols pulsed with a soft, violet light, invisible to the uninitiated. They guided him past the collapsed nave toward a side wall where the shadows embraced thickest. There, a narrow wooden door, warped by humidity and time, waited. It groaned in protest as he forced it open, revealing a small, stone-walled chamber. He sat cross-legged on the cold floor. From the inner pocket of his coat, he withdrew a medallion. It was heavy, crafted from a metal that seemed to drink the light, bearing the intricate, terrifying sigil of a demon from the Ars Goetia. Marcon’s hands trembled slightly. He fixed his gaze on the symbol, his breathing slowing, his mind sinking into the trance he had cultivated for weeks. The dormant power within the artifact stirred, awakening like a predator stretching after a long slumber.
The world dissolved. The cold stone beneath him warmed. The bare walls of the chamber receded, replaced by towering pillars of alabaster, intricately carved with golden vines and floral patterns. The air shimmered with an ethereal glow, as if a thousand invisible candles had been lit simultaneously. When Marcon opened his eyes, he was no longer in a ruin. He stood in the nave of the church, but it was pristine, restored to a glory it had not known since the Middle Ages. The debris was gone, replaced by rows of polished wooden pews. Occupying them were shadowy figures, draped in robes of deepest black. They were spectral, their forms wavering like heat haze, murmuring incantations that vibrated in the air. The altar ahead blazed with candlelight, illuminating tapestries that depicted scenes not of biblical salvation, but of ancient, forbidden rituals.
From heavy wooden doors that had not existed moments before, a figure emerged. His long, dark hair falling over shoulders draped in armor that glinted with a faint, internal light. Jewels set into the metal sparkled like captured starlight. His presence was immense. Marcon rose, extending the medallion.
“I know who you are, caretaker of the Guardian,” the newcomer said. “I have been expecting you. Forgive the theatrics — such displays are not my style. But my power has waned over the years, and I must rely on the ancient spells of mortals to bridge our worlds.”
Marcon inclined his head, his eyes steady on the Prince. “Welcome to Earth, Prince Sallos.”
The demon’s lips curled into a faint smile, a spark of dark amusement lighting his eyes. He descended the steps, his boots making no sound on the polished stone.
“Greetings, Marcon,” Sallos replied. “Our meeting concerns Annwn — the realm under my care. It has been wracked by upheaval recently, carrying an unspeakable crime. Come, let us descend to the catacombs. There, I have a wine brewed by the Tylwyth Teg, a taste you surely have not encountered in this world.”
Sallos gestured toward a staircase that spiraled down into the earth where the crypt should have been. Marcon studied it for a heartbeat, noting the impossibility of its sudden appearance. His decision, however, had been made the moment he stepped through the church gates. He stepped forward, following the demon prince into the depths, as unseen spells wove around him like serpents in the dark.
Marcon stared across the table, not at the demon prince, but at the glint of crimson wine in his goblet, mirroring the infernal fire that had briefly consumed Sallos’s eyes. The enormity of the task settled over him like a shroud. Find the King of Annwn. A quest whispered in hushed tones through millennia, a riddle without an answer, a legend that had long since faded into the realm of children's tales. And now, it was his. His and Owena’s.
"The King?" Marcon's voice was a rough whisper. He felt a tremor run through him. "Sallos, you speak of a phantom. The King of Annwn vanished before the first stones of this very church were laid. Centuries ago. There are ancient prophecies, yes, but no one has ever found so much as a whisper of his true resting place, let alone a means to bring him back."
Sallos, now seated once more, regarded him with those unnervingly calm, brown eyes. The candelabrum flickered, making the shadows on his chiseled features dance. "And yet, you will try, Marcon. Because it is the only path to the justice you crave, and the only way to safeguard what remains." His voice was low, resonant. "Mab’s dominion over Annwn is absolute, maintained by spells so deeply woven into the fabric of that realm that to unravel them entirely would risk tearing the whole of reality apart. Her removal, without a legitimate successor, would plunge Annwn into anarchy. A power vacuum that countless entities, human and otherwise, would eagerly exploit. A war far worse than the one I prevented."
Marcon slowly lifted his gaze to Sallos. "So, you seek to replace one tyrant with another. One illusion with another." His words were laced with bitter skepticism.
"No," Sallos countered, his voice sharp. "I seek to restore balance. The true King of Annwn, if he can be found and returned, holds the ancestral right to rule. His presence alone would shift the very essence of the realm, breaking Mab’s tyrannical hold without shattering the world entirely. It would be a change so fundamental, so deeply resonant with the ancient covenants, that even the other Princes of Hell and the rulers of the Upper Realms could not challenge it without exposing their own hypocrisy." He leaned forward slightly, a flicker of something almost akin to hope in his cold eyes. "It would be a justice that is both absolute and indisputable by those who would seek to profit from Annwn’s woes."
Marcon pushed a hand through his long grey hair, the movement slow and weary. He thought of Lorella, her laughter, her fierce spirit, now extinguished. He thought of Owena, strong and capable, but still his daughter, still vulnerable.
"And Owena?" Marcon asked. "She is the Guardian. She hunts Mab’s lackeys. She is still raw with grief over Lorella. This... this is beyond anything she has ever faced."
Sallos’s expression remained unyielding. "Your daughter is formidable, Marcon. She carries the mantle of the Guardian with an uncommon ferocity. And she is driven by a grief that mirrors your own, a thirst for retribution that will fuel her purpose. I have observed her. She will not falter. Moreover, the trail of the missing King is not one that can be followed by brute force alone. It requires the Guardian's unique connection to the liminal, her ability to perceive the seams between worlds, to navigate the currents of forgotten magic."
He paused, his gaze softening. "I understand your fear, Marcon. A father’s fear. But Owena is not alone. You will guide her. You will be her tether, her anchor when the liminal threatens to consume her. Your knowledge of lore, of the hidden histories, will be invaluable. You have survived Mab’s direct assault. You are cunning. You are resilient. And you have nothing left to lose but everything to gain."
Marcon looked away, staring into the flickering flame of the nearest candle. His home, his family, irrevocably altered. Lorella was gone, a memory now, a burning wound in his heart. And Owena now tasked with a burden that might well break her. He took a slow, deep breath, the scent of an old stones filling his nose. "And if we fail?" he asked. "If the King cannot be found? If Owena falls, following a ghost through the forgotten corners of reality?"
Sallos met his gaze, his eyes once again devoid of any discernible emotion. "Then, Marcon," he said, "Annwn will remain under Mab’s thumb, and the ancient covenant will hold. And you will bear the weight of that failure. But I do not believe you will fail. Not with such potent motivation."
Marcon slowly nodded. The anger had bled out of him, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He had lost too much to not grasp at this slender thread of hope, however impossible. For Lorella. For the slaughtered Tylwyth Teg. He pushed his half-empty goblet forward. "Tell me everything," he said. "Every legend, every whisper, every half-forgotten prophecy. Show me the path, Sallos. And may whatever gods still watch over Annwn have mercy on us all."
Sallos’s lips curved into a faint smile. He reached for the wine bottle, refilling Marcon’s goblet, the crimson liquid swirling inside. "Excellent," He murmured. "Then let us begin. The tale of Annwn’s lost King is long, Marcon. And it begins, as all good stories do, with betrayal."
The candlelight flickered, casting longer, deeper shadows, as the demon prince prepared to unfold a tapestry of forgotten history and Marcon, a grieving father and reluctant pawn, prepared to step onto a path from which there would be no return. The true hunt for the King of Annwn had begun.
The fluorescent lights of the city diner hummed with an annoying frequency. Outside, the night had swallowed the gas station, leaving only the harsh, artificial glow of the pumps and glow coming from nearby street lamps. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and frying grease.
Owena stared into the bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of her. The broth had cooled, but she didn't lift the spoon. Her mind was leagues away. Across the table, Loranir watched her. He sat with his usual stillness, a pillar of patience in a world that had become increasingly chaotic. His long hair, framed a face that had seen too much violence. He let the silence stretch, filling the space between them, until the chatter of the diner’s clients and the tinny music from the ceiling speakers became a dull roar. Finally, he spoke.
"Owena, you were the one who wanted to head home quickly. Maybe you should finish up, and we can get going?"
"I don't feel like it," she replied, her voice flat. She didn't lift her gaze from the swirling patterns in her soup.
"But you wanted to stop here. You said you were hungry," Loranir said. He gestured vaguely at the untouched bowl. "You haven't eaten a spoon."
"It wasn’t about the food," Owena whispered. The smell of incoming rain was beginning to drift in through the automatic doors.
Loranir waited. He knew better than to push. He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, sensing the dam was about to break.
"I’m tired of playing the Guardian," she finally admitted.
Loranir sighed. "Owena, our failure was temporary," he said gently, trying to offer the comfort he knew she needed. "I’m sure we’ll find her and send her back to Annwn before the week is out. We just need to track her movements."
"Exactly. We’ll find her and send her back." Owena finally looked up. "But have you ever wondered what the point of all this is? Why are we chasing and hunting down these... people?"
"You know why," Loranir replied, his tone firming up. "Her group attacked the previous Guardian and murdered her in cold blood. Marcon was there, and he barely escaped with his life. We have to punish them and send them where they belong. They’re a danger as long as they remain in this world."
"Are you sure about that?" Owena’s voice grew sharper, cutting through his logic. "Have you heard of them doing anything since the war with Mab ended? No, you haven’t. The only reason we’re having trouble finding them is that they’ve done nothing to draw attention — not from us, not from the world. When Mab’s orders stopped reaching them, they were finally free. They started living their own lives. And now, we’re supposed to send them back into the hands of the one who created them and forced them to kill."
"Owena, they were made to kill," Loranir pointed out calmly. "You just admitted it yourself."
"But was it their choice to live that way? I don’t think so." She paused, her voice trembling with a frustration that had been building for months. "Besides, I can’t shake the feeling that whether we punish them or not, it won’t make any difference. We had a chance — a real chance — for the one who sent them to Earth, the one who unleashed hell on Annwn, to pay for her crimes. And what did we do? We believed her lies and handed her back her power... Not us, but the one who gave us this task of guarding the Liminal Zone. Sallos didn’t get rid of her. No, he used his power to rebuild her kingdom, to weave a new illusion spell over her subjects so she could continue deceiving and exploiting them."
Owena’s voice cracked with anger and bitterness. She couldn't sit still any longer. She stood abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor, drawing a few glances from the next table.
"Let’s go outside," she said, her breath hitching. "Maybe the cold air will help me clear my head."
"Alright," Loranir said, rising to join her. He left a few bills on the table, enough to cover the soup and a generous tip, before following her out.
The night air was crisp and carried the scent of impending rain. They walked together along the dimly lit street, away from the bright lights of the diner, the glow of streetlights casting long, distorted shadows on the pavement.
"When Sallos was busy ‘repairing’ Annwn," Owena continued, her voice trembling as she wrapped her arms around herself against the chill, "Matilda, that old witch was slaughtering your brothers and sisters... she murdered Lorella."
Loranir flinched at the name. It was a wound that hadn't healed.
Owena’s tears began to spill down her cheeks, hot against her cold skin. "Why aren’t we looking for Matilda? Why aren’t we hunting that damn murderess?"
The question hung in the damp air, unanswered and heavy. Owena’s voice broke completely then, dissolving into sobs that shook her frame. She turned and buried her face against Loranir’s chest, seeking the only anchor she had left in the shifting tides of their reality. He didn't hesitate; he wrapped his arms around her, placing a gentle hand on her back, holding her as she trembled.
"We will," Loranir said softly. "One day, we will." He felt her nod against his chest.
"Let’s go home," he murmured into her hair. "You need rest. If necessary, Marcon and I will deal with the Changelings ourselves."
Owena looked up at him, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the flickering streetlamp. She looked exhausted, worn down by the weight of a war that had technically ended but continued to claim casualties in the shadows.
"You’re right," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I need rest. For at least a few hours, I don’t want to think about everything that’s happened to us these past months."
Loranir nodded, guiding her as they go along the street. The diner’s neon sign buzzed in the distance, a lonely beacon in the dark, but Owena didn't look back. She was ready to go home, even if home was just another place to wait for the next hunt.
The air in the abandoned church smelled of magic and old stone, a sensory cocktail that always left Marcon’s tongue feeling like it was coated in static. He adjusted the brim of his hat, his silver hair catching the dying embers of ethereal light that danced along the nave. Behind him, the world was unraveling. The wraiths, those intoning, shadowy specters were dissolving. They grew translucent, their forms bleeding into the humid air until they vanished completely, returning the church to its miserable, earthly state. The illusion peeled away like sunburnt skin. The grand arches of the ceiling, which moments ago had been gilded and pristine, crumbled into dust and exposed rafters. The stained-glass windows, which had depicted saints in vibrant hues, were now just jagged shards of colored glass clinging to rotting frames. The church was a corpse, and Marcon was walking out of its mouth.
He was ten paces from the massive, weather-beaten oak doors when the voice stopped him. "Marcon, the mission I assigned to the Guardian is not impossible."
Marcon stopped. He didn't turn immediately. He let the silence stretch. Then, slowly, he pivoted on his heel. Sallos stepped out from the shadows of a collapsed confessional. The Prince of Hell’s remote projection appeared in the earthly realm; wearing tailored suit, his eyes burning with the crimson luminescence. He didn't cast a shadow in the traditional sense; rather, the space around him seemed to absorb the light.
"We witnessed something that has not occurred in centuries," Sallos continued, his voice a low baritone. "During the confrontation with Queen Mab and her demon, the sword and enchanted helm of the King of Annwn revealed themselves."
Marcon’s expression remained a mask of indifference, but his mind cataloged the information instantly. Annwn. The Twilight Realm. Artifacts of myth that were supposed to be dust.
"They vanished without a trace," Sallos said, stepping closer, his form seeming almost insubstantial against the faint afterglow of the fading spells. "But we now know they were not destroyed. This gives us hope for their recovery."
Marcon arched a single silver eyebrow. He remained silent.
"If these artifacts are placed in the hands of the King of the Twilight Realm," Sallos went on, his crimson eyes narrowing, "we will have the means to destroy Mab’s illusion once and for all. Without inciting the wrath of the Infernal Council."
Sallos needed a proxy. He needed a human hand to pull the chestnuts from the fire, one that wouldn't trigger the ancient treaties binding the infernal powers. The demon prince took another step, stopping just shy of the threshold of the door, as if an invisible barrier held him back. "I cannot yet cross the gates of this place," he noted, a hint of frustration coloring his tone. "But remember, Marcon, you and your Guardian will always have..."
"Your blessing?" Marcon interrupted. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a sardonic smirk. "Strange words coming from a devil."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. With a casual, fluid motion, he tipped his hat into place, shadowing his eyes. The gesture was dismissive, a period at the end of the conversation. "So be it," He said. He turned his back on the Prince of Hell — a dangerous act for any mortal, but one Marcon performed with a casual arrogance. He grasped the iron ring handle of the heavy oak door. It groaned in protest, but it swung open.
Beyond the threshold lay not the overgrown graveyard he had entered, but a wall of dense, white mist, silent and cold, swallowing the world just a few meters from the door. The forest was shrouded in it. Waiting in the mist, like a silent sentinel, was his motorcycle. It was a beast of chrome and black leather. Marcon stepped out of the church, leaving the ruins behind. The cool, damp air hit his face, a sharp contrast to the stale atmosphere of the ruined sanctuary. He swung his leg over the bike. He twisted the key. The engine coughed once, then roared to life, a guttural growl that shattered the silence of the misty woods. The vibration thrummed through him, grounding him in the physical world again. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could still feel the weight of Sallos’s gaze. Marcon throttled the engine, the rear wheel spinning in the wet leaves, and shot forward into the white void. He sped toward the city, toward his Guardian, toward a war he hadn't asked for, leaving the church — and the Devil’s bargain — fading into the mist behind him.
The city exhaled its last breath of daylight, as Elenaril walked. The street lamps flickered to life, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like phantom limbs reaching for her. Her blue dress, a deceptive splash of civilian normalcy, caught the faint breeze, as did her soft, long, blue hair, carefully styled to cascade over ears that were distinctly un-human. Elenaril was good at blending in. She paused before a shop window, drawn by the vibrant display of electronics. Inside, a wall of televisions glowed. LCD screens, renowned for their crisp, unwavering clarity, were betraying their nature. Black bands, like smears of ink, pulsed and rippled across the high-definition images, a rhythmic distortion.
Elenaril clenched her fists. Regret, bitter and sharp, pierced through her carefully constructed composure. The mission. The foolish, ill-conceived mission. She quickened her pace, each step a desperate attempt to outrun the unseen eyes, the malevolent magic that clung to her like a shroud. She knew she was being watched. Elenaril’s hand instinctively darted towards the hidden dagger, but before she could fully draw it, a light touch landed on her shoulder. She whirled, only to find herself staring into a pair of striking violet eyes.
“Amadee? What are you doing here?” Elenaril asked, her voice a startled whisper, the adrenaline still thrumming through her veins.
The young woman before her had short, jet-black hair that framed a face of elfin beauty. Unlike Elenaril’s discreet cover, Amadee’s pointed ears were proudly uncovered, a defiance Elenaril found both admirable and reckless. She wore a dark leather jacket and black pants. A faint, knowing smile played on Amadee’s lips.
“I’m here to save you, Elenaril. The Guardian is after you, isn’t she?”
Elenaril’s shoulders sagged. “Yes. I ran into her earlier today. It was rather… unpleasant encounter.”
“I’m not surprised. You shouldn’t be traveling alone. Not now. Come with me. There’s something important we need to discuss. Our whole group must meet.” Amadee’s tone was urgent and laced with a calm authority Elenaril found infuriating.
“No. I’m not going with you,” She replied firmly, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond Amadee’s shoulder. “Now I see that attacking that old woman and the mage was a mistake. A catastrophic one. I regret ever agreeing to that mission. Leave me alone.”
Amadee’s smile vanished, replaced by a tense expression. “Do you really think you can handle the Guardian on your own? Or her lackey — the one who can freeze any amount of water you control?”
Elenaril’s breath hitched. The dark elf. She narrowed her eyes, but stayed silent, weighing her options. Or lack thereof. “I’ll take that risk,” she said finally, her voice low and determined. “I don’t want to serve Mab’s whims anymore. Not after this.”
“Listen to me, Elenaril. I know you want nothing to do with us because you enjoy your life here in this world. This… illusion of a life. But if you abandon us, if you run now, your dream will never come true. The Guardian will send you back to Annwn without even asking your opinion. She probably already told you that when you met her, didn’t she?” Amadee said to her.
The words hit Elenaril. Her gaze dropped, shame and resignation mixing in her heart. She nodded reluctantly, a silent admission of the bleak truth. The Guardian’s threat had been chillingly clear: cooperate and return to the twilight realm.
“Good. Then let’s go. Our car is just around the corner.” Amadee’s voice softened slightly.
“A car?” Elenaril asked, surprised. She’d expected a cloaked portal, perhaps a shadow-walk.
“Yes. Zhoron is waiting for us, though he’s probably getting impatient by now. You know how he gets.”
They moved swiftly, turning into a narrower, even darker side alley. There, sat a black sedan. Its doors were already ajar, a silent invitation. Leaning against its polished hood was a figure in a dark suit and sunglasses, even in the dimming light. When he saw them, he straightened, his posture rigid, a clear picture of annoyance.
“Where have you been? I was about to leave,” Zhoron grumbled. “The others are already waiting for us at Zabbas’ hideout.”
“I had to convince Elenaril why reuniting the group is in everyone’s best interest,” Amadee said calmly, her composure unruffled by Zhoron’s irritation.
Zhoron’s dark gaze swept over Elenaril. “Fine. Get in. We don’t have time to waste — no doubt the Guardian is already tracking Elenaril’s little flicker in the urban static.” He climbed back into the driver’s seat with practiced ease. Elenaril and Amadee slid into the back, the leather seats cool beneath them. The engine roared to life with a powerful growl. The vehicle shot forward, cutting through the thickening evening fog like a phantom ship, its headlights piercing the gloom. As they sped away from the flickering TV screens, Elenaril stared out at the passing city lights. She had chosen a side, again. But this time, it felt less like a choice and more like a desperate leap into the unknown, back into the shadows she had tried so hard to escape. The road ahead was shrouded, leading her deeper into a conflict she desperately wanted to abandon, but was now inextricably bound to.
The car’s engine cut, leaving a ringing silence that was quickly devoured by the distant, thumping bass of the nightclub. Rain slicked the asphalt, turning the parking lot into a fractured mirror. Above, a neon sign — an abstract, slender figure in crimson — bled its light onto the wet ground. Zhoron exited the vehicle first. Elenaril followed, the humid night air clinging to her skin, and finally Amadee, who slammed the door with a quiet ferocity that betrayed her impatience.
At the entrance, a bouncer of imposing breadth and a jaw like a block of granite stood with arms crossed. As Zhoron’s piercing gaze locked onto him, the man’s resolve visibly crumbled. He stepped aside without a word, the silent acknowledgment of a predator recognizing a greater threat.
Inside, the sensory assault was immediate. The music wasn't just heard; it was felt — a physical vibration that rattled the teeth. Strobing lights in violet, emerald, and blood-red slashed through a haze of smoke and sweat, reflecting endlessly in mirrored walls that made the room feel infinite, suffocating. Elenaril’s sharp eyes swept the room, cataloging the bizarre tableau with a mix of detached fascination and rising unease. Near the bar, there was a group of bald women lounged with predatory confidence, their smirks directed at a bartender clad in nothing but provocative leather lingerie. At the center of the room, a girl dancer with albinism twisted around a steel pole, her skin glowing with an ethereal, almost supernatural pallor under the shifting lights. The men watching her wore expressions that ranged from awe to a hunger that bordered on feral. Weaving through the throng were diminutive waiters, their heads barely reaching the waists of the patrons. They moved with frantic efficiency, balancing trays of neon-bright cocktails. When they paused to grin at a customer, their teeth — sharp and pointed — gleamed in the low light. In a shadowed booth, a solitary figure cloaked in a long coat sat motionless, his face hidden behind a gas mask; the mechanical hiss of his breathing was a rhythmic counterpoint to the chaotic music.
The trio moved through the pulsing mass, drawing fleeting glances but parting the crowd like a dark tide. They bypassed the main floor, heading toward a discreet side corridor. The transition was abrupt. The chaotic noise of the club faded into a muffled hum, replaced by a heavy, subterranean silence. The walls here were lined with black velvet, and brass sconces cast pools of soft, golden light along the narrow passage. At the end of the hallway stood a guard, his face obscured by a mask of intricate, branch-like patterns. Behind him, double doors of dark wood gleamed with golden accents that mirrored the mask’s design. Zhoron approached, leaning in to whisper something in the guard's ear. The man nodded, produced a key, and unlocked the doors, granting them passage into the sanctum.
The room beyond was an exercise in luxury. The air was cool and smelled of old paper. Shelves lined the walls, packed tight with books bound in black leather; their spines bore runes that seemed to pulse faintly in the gloom. In the corner, a blue-glass floor lamp cast an eerie, spectral glow across a large wooden desk. Behind the desk sat a woman of middle years, her posture rigid, her face porcelain-pale against the dark velvet of her Victorian gown. Her eyes were sharp, dissecting, missing nothing. But it was the bundle in her arms that made Elenaril’s breath hitch. Zabbas, a demonic child, his skin a deep, impossible blue, his ears tapered to delicate points. He turned his head slowly, fixing the newcomers with a gaze that held no infantile innocence. He smiled — a knowing, ancient expression that belonged on a weathered face, not a baby’s.
"I’m so glad our family is reunited," the child said. The voice was deep and vibrating with a mature authority that clashed violently with the small, wobbling body. The woman set the child down on the floor. It toddled forward, its gait unsteady but deliberate.
"I’ve gathered you all because the time has come to free ourselves from the greatest threat," the demon child announced, his voice filling the room. "The time has come to defeat the Guardian and all her allies."
"We’ve managed to avoid her so far," Zhoron interjected, his tone calm but firm.
"But the days of peace are over," Zabbas countered, his piercing gaze shifting to settle on Elenaril. "You’ve already discovered this truth, haven’t you?"
Elenaril met the creature's stare. "Yes," she confirmed, her voice steady despite the chill creeping up her spine. "I fought the Guardian. And how do you know about that?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.
"I sent my people to observe you," Zabbas replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. "They were prepared to intervene if necessary, but it seems their help wasn’t required."
Elenaril lowered her head, processing the implication. She had been watched, assessed, perhaps even tested.
"What’s the plan for defeating the Guardian?" Amadee’s voice cut through the tension. "Surely there’s a reason we’ve been summoned."
"Indeed, there is," the demonic child said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "As many of you know, one of my abilities is sensing the presence of beings like us, especially when they first enter this world. Before we were sent to eliminate the previous Guardian, I had a vision. I sensed a child born in one of the hospitals, a soul from Tylwyth Teg. I also felt the presence of two Dark Elves — one now serves the Guardian, while the other, a woman, has not returned from Annwn."
"And how does this help us destroy the Guardian?" Zhoron asked, leaning forward.
"The hospital where the child was born shut down shortly after, supposedly due to financial troubles," Zabbas explained. "The building now stands abandoned, its only occupants the homeless who linger in its shadow. We will destroy it. We will do so in a way that showcases the full extent of our power. We’ll ensure witnesses remain to spread the tale. The Guardian will hear of it. She’ll know it’s a warning. She’ll understand that if she refuses to face us, our next target will be the child from Faerie and its family. She will have no choice but to come to us. And when she does, we’ll spring our trap. We’ll separate her from her allies and finish her off."
Elenaril exchanged a brief, unreadable glance with Amadee. The plan was brutal, a scorched-earth strategy that relied on terror as a weapon.
"You’re sure this will work?" Zhoron asked, breaking the silence.
Zabbas’ smile widened, revealing sharp teeth. "It has to."
The heavy door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the cacophony of the city below. Loranir and Owena entered the apartment they shared with their mentor, Marcon. Without hesitation, Owena made her way to the living room and sank onto the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights. The ambient glow of the skyline filtered through the windows, painting the room in shades of blue. Loranir settled into a black, leather armchair, the material creaking softly under his weight.
“You’ve used Nexus, after all.” He said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. It was rare to see the stoic elf display any amusement, even at the expense of her stubbornness.
Owena sighed softly, rubbing the back of her neck where a tension headache was beginning to bloom. “My desire to be home as quickly as possible outweighed my reluctance to travel through Nexus.” She hated the sensation of being unraveled and stitched back together, but after a twelve-hour stakeout, she had no energy left for the slow, traditional methods of travel.
The elf moved toward the wall and pressed a button. The room brightened instantly, warm lighting chasing away the shadows. It became apparent that someone else was present — Marcon himself was seated on a wooden stool by the window, smiling upon noticing the surprise etched on his pupils’ faces. “If I were your enemy, you would be dead,” He stated coolly. He didn’t move from his perch, his silhouette framed against the dark cityscape.
Owena glanced around the room, her eyes lingering on the subtle magical aura that now seemed to permeate the apartment. It shimmered at the edge of her vision, an iridescent web. “Didn’t you notice the magical trap in a regular apartment block? I used a protecting spell as you taught me, most people could not be able to enter this room,” she replied, though her voice lacked the defensive bite she usually reserved for his tests.
Marcon’s expression remained stoic. “You just admitted that most could not enter here without our knowledge. But you also know that there are those for whom this would be small feat. Sallos granted us arcane abilities, so his own magic wouldn’t harm him. I’m certain Matilda could handle our barriers as well. But enough complaining. You’ve returned, and I have much to discuss.”
Owena looked curious. She exchanged a quick glance with Loranir. Marcon had been gone for three days, vanishing without a word. “Yes?” she asked.
“Sallos summoned me. We met in one of the liminal spaces,” Marcon explained.
Loranir leaned forward, concern evident in his voice. “Did he say anything new about the Dark Elves?”
Marcon shook his head, a shadow of regret passing over his features. “No, nothing new — just a remembrance of the tragedy that befell them.”
The air in the room grew heavy. Loranir’s posture stiffened, the casual relaxation of moments ago evaporating. Owena reached out to touch his shoulder, attempting to offer comfort, but seeing the profound sadness in his eyes, she withdrew her hand. Some wounds were too deep for a simple touch to heal.
“I understand how difficult it is for you to come to terms with what happened and how much you want to punish those responsible for this tragedy,” Marcon continued, his voice gentler now. “It may prove impossible since no one knows where Matilda is or if anyone from her undead horde remains. However, after speaking with Sallos, I learned that there is a possibility to implement changes in the Twilight Realm and eliminate the factors that made the massacre of the Dark Tylwyth Teg possible.”
Owena listened intently, leaning forward, while Loranir took a seat next to her on the couch.
“Sallos will not confront Mab directly,” Marcon declared. “But there is someone who can do it without incurring the wrath of the Princes of Hell or sparking a war between realms.”
“Who?” Loranir asked.
“The King of Annwn. Only he can attempt to usurp Mab’s throne,” Marcon replied.
Owena frowned thoughtfully. The name was ancient, a relic of stories told in hushed tones. “But the King of Annwn disappeared centuries ago. Maybe he’s been dead for a long time.”
“We all thought so,” Marcon acknowledged, “but recently we witnessed his helmet and sword materialize. These magical items are integral to the king and wouldn’t exist if he were truly dead. Sallos was aware of this, which is why he decided to change the role of the Guardian of the Liminal Zone. From today onwards, your mission, Owena, will be to find the King of Annwn, and we will assist you in this endeavor.”
Marcon gazed directly into Owena’s eyes. She was initially speechless, the weight of the words settling on her chest. But after a moment, she began to assess the situation rationally, pushing down the rising tide of anxiety.
“How am I supposed to do this when I have no idea where to start looking?” Owena questioned.
“We are here to help you and devise a plan,” Marcon assured her with a confident nod.
“At last, my sister will be able to find peace,” Loranir whispered softly to Owena. The quest for vengeance had been a hollow pursuit; this, however, felt like a path toward actual healing.
Marcon rose from his stool. “I’m going to my room. Stay here and think about the changes this new task will bring you,” he said, leaving the room.
Owena glanced at Loranir. She wanted to say something, to bridge the gap of his grief, but she noticed that his thoughts had drifted once again into the dark ocean of memories surrounding his murdered sister. She decided not to break the silence, allowing him his solitude within their shared space.
After a longer moment, Marcon returned to the living room. His face was unusually serious, the lines around his mouth etched deep.
“Owena, Loranir, you need to see this,” he said and turned toward his room.
“What’s he on about?” Owena asked, not really expecting an answer.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Loranir replied, rising from his chair.
They followed Marcon into his room, where he stood frozen, staring at the television. The screen displayed scenes of a rescue operation: firefighters battling the flames consuming a collapsed building’s ruins. Smoke billowed into the night sky, illuminated by the strobing red and blue lights of emergency vehicles.
“What happened?” Owena asked, her curiosity tinged with worry.
“Listen,” Marcon said sharply, pointing at the screen.
A news report played, featuring a disheveled man being interviewed by a reporter. His clothes were torn, and soot stained his face.
“Could you describe what happened here?” the journalist asked.
“It was terrible!” the man exclaimed, his voice shaking. “First, they threw me and my friends out of that hospital, and then strange things started happening! Sewer grates exploded, and water shot out, smashing against walls and windows. Then there was this light — something glowing on the upper floors — and suddenly, all the streetlights blew out, like they were struck by lightning at the same time. The ground shook, and the whole building... It rippled, I swear! The entire structure rippled, and then it collapsed. That’s all I remember. After that, everything went still.”
Owena and Loranir exchanged uneasy glances, knowing the man wasn’t fabricating his story. The description was too specific to be a random accident.
“Water, light, lightning...” Loranir muttered, looking at Owena.
“And then an earthquake. What else?” Owena added.
“A spatial anomaly,” Marcon said, turning to face them.
“Do you think it’s them?” Owena asked.
“It’s a demonstration of power by the Changelings sent to Earth by Mab. There’s no chance this was random.”
“And it happened just after we attacked one of them... Yes, you’re right. This wasn’t a coincidence,” Loranir agreed, clenching his fists.
“Did anyone die?” Owena asked.
“No. The building was abandoned. Someone even led the homeless out before the collapse. But do you know what hospital that was?” Marcon looked at Loranir. “It’s where the youngest Changeling was born. A few months ago, you and Lorella retrieved a message from him there,” he explained before Loranir could answer.
“This was a warning. They’ve thrown down the gauntlet,” the elf declared.
Owena approached the window, gazing out at the city shrouded in darkness. She thought of the destruction below, the sheer power required to make a building ripple before it fell.
“How could I have been so naive...” she whispered. “My foolishness could have cost lives.” She had hesitated before, holding back. That hesitation, that desire to see the Changelings as harmless beings, had been met with this display of absolute destruction. She turned abruptly, her eyes blazing with determination as she faced Marcon and Loranir. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.
“I won’t hesitate anymore. They’re dangerous, and we have to send them back where they can’t hurt anyone. We must accept their challenge and put an end to this once and for all!” she declared resolutely.