April 1, 2025.
Location: Fae City within the Sanctum, 15 miles west of Doras Dagda, Scottish Highlands.
The air grew heavier with each step, thick and buzzing like a storm about to break loose. The trees glowed with twitchy, shifting colors, as if something lurked in the shadows, sizing them up with a predator's hunger.
Robert felt the forest judging them, debating whether to mess with their heads or rip them apart.
Langston tripped over a gnarled root, cursing so sharp it could've cut steel. "Trees don't twist like this, it's pure nonsense!" he snapped, brushing dirt off like it had personally offended him.
Chaucer stretched on a low branch, smug as a cat. "Oh, Langston, ye dour fool," he purred, his English lilt sly as a London bard. "Why drag thy dusty logic into a realm that laughs in its face?" His whiskers twitched, a grin dancing in his eyes.
Langston glared, fierce enough to melt a forge. "Some of us still want a shred of sanity!" he shot back, arms crossing tight.
Snow let out a soft giggle, clear and light, as she slipped past them. Hamish stood steady as stone, hands near his twin short swords, his gaze scanning every shadow. "Shut yer traps," he growled with sixty-five years of grit. "This place reeks of trouble, and I dinnae like it one wee bit."
Hamish wasn't wrong. Robert felt the path turn treacherous. Roots jutted out to catch ankles, branches hung low enough to slap your face, and the path pitched and dropped like busted stairs. The air stuck in his throat, thick and sour, like the Sanctum was trying to choke them out.
A shimmer flickered off to the side, quick as a blink. Robert spun, but nothing was there. Snow froze beside him, her staff flickering with light as her breath caught. "Did you see that?" she asked, her voice tight with worry.
"You bet I did," Robert said, his pulse kicking up like a revving engine. "And it's not here to swap stories."
Chaucer sniffed the air, his tail stiffening. "Sprites," he spat, crouching low, his posh English clipped. "Quick as a whip, cruel as a kicked tomcat, and devilish pissed, m'lord."
Langston crossed his arms tighter. "Fairies? You're kidding me, right?" he scoffed, voice dripping with skepticism.
Robert shot him a hard look, jaw set. "Wake up, Langston, this is Sanctum rules now, not your lab."
More shimmers darted past, circling close. Lights tightened around them like a noose, herding them where they didn't want to go.
Hamish growled, steel rasping as he yanked his blades free. "Playtime's done, ye wee devils," he rumbled, stance wide and solid.
"No," Robert said, eyes narrowing. "They're testing our nerve, seeing what we've got."
The lights fused into a hulking shadow, red eyes blazing like warning flares. The roar hit like a shockwave, knocking Robert back a step. Langston stumbled, swearing loud enough to echo. "What the heck is that thing?!" he yelled, voice cracking.
"Just an illusion," Robert said, though the sound sent a chill crawling down his spine. "Brace yourselves, they're out to break us."
Robert thrust his hands out, and wind roared from his palms, tearing the shadow into glowing ash. Sprites appeared, their eyes sharp and their smiles eager, like they were already enjoying the fight. They hissed, gripping jagged light shards in their claws.
A sprite shot toward Hamish, moving as fast as a bullet. Hamish swung his blade with precision, cutting the creature clean in half. Black gore sprayed out, hot and reeking like a grease fire, splattering his boots. Robert caught the stench, sharp and foul. "They bleed like pigs," Hamish grunted, his lips curling into a grim smirk as his eyes burned with the grit of a long shift.
Snow moved beside Robert, her staff crackling with frost. She thrust it forward, and ice spears shot through the air. The spears slammed into two sprites mid-flight, shattering their wings and spilling red guts across the moss. The creatures screamed, their broken bodies twitching before going still. Snow's hands shook slightly, but she held her ground.
Chaucer leaped from branch to branch, his wakizashi glinting in the dim light. He struck a sprite, and its head dropped to the ground with a dull thud, like a spoiled fruit hitting pavement. Blood oozed, dark and sticky, staining the moss below.
Robert called up fire, the heat stinging his palms as flames burst outward, filling the air with a searing glow. The sprites shrieked as their wings caught fire, their bodies crumbling like burnt paper and scattering in the wind. Robert felt the heat on his face, intense and dry.
Langston flinched when a sprite buzzed his ear, his arms flailing. "How do you even fight this crap?!" he barked, panic cracking his voice.
"Grow a darn spine!" Robert snapped, hurling a stream of water that smashed a sprite off Snow's side, sending it crashing to the ground, soaked and broken.
The fight was brutal, a blur of blood and motion. Hamish's blades carved through sprites, blood coating his boots like spilled oil. Snow's ice spears pierced true, crushing sprite bones with each hit. Chaucer moved like a shadow, his blades slicing flesh, leaving trails of blood behind him. They took down the sprites one by one, until the last collapsed into fading light, leaving a glowing crystal in the dirt.
Robert grabbed it, feeling its warmth pulse against his palm. "This is an illusionary crystal, rare as all heck," he said, turning it over in his fingers.
Snow leaned in, her breath uneven, eyes wide with wonder. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice soft.
Chaucer dropped beside Robert, wiping blood off his steel with a quick swipe. "Bonnie and gold-worthy," he grinned, sly with English flare. "This Sanctum's starting to pay its dues, m'lord!"
Langston brushed off blood-streaked dirt, snorting. "You're all insane!" he muttered, voice flat, but Robert caught how his eyes lingered on the crystal, sharp and hungry.
Robert tucked it away, the crystal buzzing faintly at his side, like it wanted to be used again. Hamish sheathed his blades, knuckles popping. "This place wants us deid, plain and simple," he said, voice surly but steady.
"Yeah," Robert said, "and the deeper we go, the worse it'll hate us."
Chaucer patted Robert's leg, claws sticky with sprite blood. "Onward, m'lord, loot's calling us loud!" he chirped, English and eager.
Robert smirked, then let it drop. The Sanctum was plotting their end, and he felt it in his gut.
The air turned sharp, prickling along his arms like frost. Trees swelled, their trunks like fortress walls blocking the path. The ground smoothed out, too perfect, pulling them toward danger.
Chaucer pointed a blade at a hollowed trunk. "There's our way up, a stairway twisting into the heart of it," he said, voice low and eager.
Snow touched the bark, feeling it pulse like a heartbeat. "This wasn't carved," she said, eyes wide with awe. "It grew this way."
"Magic," Robert said, pressing his palm against the wood, sensing its steady thrum.
Hamish scuffed the first step, grunting. "Big darn tree, better pay off," he muttered, stance ready to guard.
They climbed the spiral, the bark's glow lighting their way as the forest's sounds faded. The air smelled faintly floral, sweet and off, burning cold in Robert's lungs. His legs ached, but they reached the canopy, and the sight hit him like a punch.
Platforms stretched between the trees, woven from living branches that flexed slightly underfoot. Bridges swayed, lanterns casting faint light. The canopy shimmered green and silver, sunlight breaking into golden streams.
Snow stepped onto a platform, her staff hanging limp. She whispered, eyes wide, her voice soft. "It's beautiful."
Hamish's stone face softened, just a fraction. "Aye," he murmured, quieter than usual. "It's worth a look."
The city was silent, shops empty, tools left where they fell, homes sealed with magic. Robert felt the emptiness. "They've gone to the castle," he said, voice low, scanning the deserted streets. "They're waiting for us, mark my words."
Chaucer rummaged through a stall, grabbing a tiny gold sword that glinted in his paw. "Cute little thing," he chirped, pocketing it with a handful of coins, English cheek shining. "Fae-sized loot, charming as a sonnet!"
Snow glared at him. "Chaucer, have some respect for the dead, you thief!" she snapped, voice firm but still gentle.
He winked, unfazed. "The dead don't spend, sweet lass, waste not, want not!" he shot back with cheeky English flair.
Robert let them bicker, his focus on the fortress ahead. It gleamed, wood polished like moonlight, stained glass glowing with fiery hues, carvings of fae wars etched deep into its walls. Crossbows lined the ramparts, manned by soldiers with glowing eyes.
Hamish stepped beside Robert, his voice rough. "They're set for a scrap," he said, hand steady on a hilt.
"More than set," Robert said, his gut tightening. "They're defiant, see us as the enemy at their gates."
Snow moved to his side, her breath visible in the cool air. "They're guarding something, or someone," she said, voice calm but tense.
Chaucer stuffed coins into his pouch, grinning slyly. "I'd wager both, shiny stakes, m'lord!" he tossed out, his tongue quick.
Langston hung back, shaking his head at the city. "This engineering, it's flat-out impossible!" he muttered, voice clear.
"Magic," Robert said.
Langston scowled but stayed quiet. Robert felt the fortress throb, alive and hostile.
Robert saw Snow's unease flicker as she whispered, low and tight. "It's watching us, Robert, I can feel it," her voice edged.
"Yeah," Robert said, his neck prickling. "It's waiting for blood."
Hamish cracked his neck, steel shifting. "No retreat now, not after this far," he said, rough but certain.
"Never was the plan," Robert said. He set his eyes on the fortress. "Let's move."
Robert felt a weight in his chest, like pressure building before a collapse. A figure rose on the low wall, forearm-high but carrying himself with absolute command. His obsidian skin shimmered, wings jagged like broken blades, armor swirling silver and blue, a curved sword at his hip. Authority radiated from him, heavy and undeniable.
"Halt, ye intruders!" he bellowed, his voice sharp despite his size. "Why stomp yer clumsy bulk into our heart, speak, or bleed!"
Robert saw Snow grip her staff, tension in her stance. Hamish's hands tightened on his hilts, jaw locked. Chaucer grinned, his tail flicking with delight.
Robert stepped forward, his words blunt. "We're here for the Sanctum Core, it's in your castle, we reckon," he said.
Murmurs rose, voices sharp and tangled—like everyone wanted to yell at once but didn't dare. Soldiers tensed, magic crackling, ready to strike.
The general's face hardened, his voice cold. "Ye grasp nothing, giant," he snapped, wings twitching. "Get out, or bleed for it."
Chaucer strolled forward before Robert could reply, arms wide, his voice smooth and needling. "Bold words, wee chief!" he called, pacing with English swagger. He launched into a rhyme, loud and cutting.
"Giants stride, walls crumble fast, Fire burns where defiance lasts. City, woods, ash in their wake, Think hard on the choice ye make."
The general's wings snapped tight, fury flashing in his eyes. "Ye threaten us?!" he roared, raising a hand. "Reap it, then, strike them down!"
Magic erupted, bolts and fire raining from the walls. Heat seared Robert's face as spells ripped into the ground.
Hamish blocked a firebolt, his steel shrieking, a dark grin spreading. "Och, ye vicious wee bastards!" he growled, burr deep and blazing.
Snow raised her staff, a shimmering dome flaring up. It cracked under the barrage, but she held firm. "Hold tight!" she called, her voice hardening, arms trembling.
"Enough!" Robert roared, fists glowing red. Flames surged from his hands, blasting the wall's base. Cracks split the wood, and fae scattered like moths in a firestorm.
Chaucer dove behind stones and barked a short laugh. "Fire's the ticket, m'lord, burn them good!" he called, fierce with poet's edge.
Hamish sent light pulsing from his blades, blinding the next wave of spells. "Drop that wall, Robert!" Hamish called out.
Robert grinned, earth and fire churning inside him. Molten stone erupted as a giant rolling ball of hard magma. It smashed into the wall reducing it to rubble. Shards rained down, and fae wings buzzed in panic.
Snow moved between them, her hands casting healing light. She touched Hamish's scorched shoulder, his armor hissing, earning a gruff nod. "Good lass," he muttered. Robert felt her light hit his arm, the pain flaring briefly before fading as the graze closed.
The castle loomed, fae regrouping on its heights, the general shouting defiance.
Chaos exploded, blood and water flooding the courtyard. Snow stood firm, thrusting her staff, and a torrent roared out, tearing through the fae. It dragged their bodies across stone, smashing them into walls. "Take that, ye beasts!" she cried, her voice sharp and fierce. Fae wings broke, some flyers grabbing their kin from the flood, but the water tore through relentlessly.
Hamish attacked the walls, his blades swinging flat, shattering ramparts. Fae soldiers fell, their bones snapping on impact. Some were caught mid-fall by others, but many hit the ground hard, crossbows breaking under his onslaught. "Stay clear, ye wee diabhals, I've got yer backs!" he bellowed, burr rolling hot.
Chaucer drew a swarm, his taunts pulling their fire. A firebolt burned his shoulder, blood spraying as he spun down. Another hit his side, his fur smoking as he crashed behind rubble. He snarled, claws scraping the dirt, his usual swagger gone. The pain twisted his face, raw and serious.
Snow threw a vial, blue liquid glinting. "Drink it, ye daft mouse!" she barked, her voice hard.
Chaucer grabbed it, his hands shaking as he popped the cork and gulped it down. He poured the rest over his wounds, the liquid hissing, steam rising. He winced but let out a shaky breath. "Bloody pixies, rhyme-haters, the lot!" he spat, his English bite returning. Robert saw Hamish's eyes flick to him, worry breaking through his gruff mask, caring for the small fighter.
Robert spun wind around himself, a shield that deflected spells back at the fae. His hands glowed, firing light missiles that tore through the air. The darts struck fae mid-flight, their bodies bursting, blood misting red, screams fading fast.
"Robert!" Hamish bellowed, charging through the gore with a warden's focus. His swords cleared a path, his eyes fixed on the general. "Och, ye're mine, ye wee shite!" he roared, burr deep and blazing.
Light flashed as Hamish lunged forward, his hand snatching the fae from the air. The general thrashed, sparks of magic flaring from his hands, but Hamish's grip tightened. The fae's bones creaked under the pressure, his face contorting in pain as he struggled.
Despair hit the fae, their leader caught in a giant's fist, their resolve crumbling. Their hands dimmed, spells faltering, eyes staring in defeat.
Hamish growled, his voice dark and unyielding. "Call them off, or ye're pulp, ye wee bodach," he said, burr thick with don't-test-me grit.
The general bared his teeth, defiance burning, then the castle struck. A black pulse slammed them, hitting Robert's chest like a hammer. Another followed, the air cracking, his ears ringing. Purple light burned his eyes, and the courtyard vanished, silence swallowing them whole.
They stood in a throne room, stained glass towering, casting rainbows across the floor. The air was cold, heavy with dread that sank deep into Robert.
The Queen loomed on a blackened throne, her silver-blue skin shimmering like ice, hair flowing wild like a fire caught in the wind. Her wings snapped wide, the sound sharp like breaking glass, glowing with emerald and gold light that spilled across the floor. Violet eyes burned with rage, the room darkening as magic swirled around her claws—a force barely contained.
Her voice cut through, low and venomous. "Ye butcher my kin, torch my home," she said, leaning forward, wings twitching. "What excuses yer bloodlust, giants?"
Robert stepped up, his pulse pounding, meeting her gaze. "We came for the Sanctum Core," he said, keeping his voice steady.
Her smile was thin and threatening. "Ye've found me, ye fool," she said, and Robert felt the tension snap, ready to explode.