Long before the Codex had marked her, before the Temple or the Hollow Court, Serelith had once lived by the Iron Shore, in a cottage of moss and sea smoke. She had no name then — or rather, too many. Locals called her "the Wispborn," a wild-eyed orphan who spoke to the tide and vanished when the moon turned.
What they never knew was that she had once been taken.
By them.
The fae. The Hollow Court. But not as a guest.
As a tithe.
She remembered now, in shards: a bargain made in desperation, a human mother whispering the First Tongue without knowing why, and a child carried into a world of crystal thorns and blood-tasting starlight. She had lived in the Court's under-palace, trained to serve, not to rule. But the Court had feared her — even then. Because sometimes the spells whispered to her instead of binding her.
And one night, she escaped.
That's when she met Faelan.
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Now, in the Autumnlands, Faelan stood alone in the throneroom of the Withered Crown. His hair, once amber, had dulled to ash. The great stag antlers he wore in court ceremonies had cracked. And the leaves in his kingdom no longer fell — they withered in midair, shriveled by an unseen rot.
"She's gone," he whispered to the empty hall. "The girl who spoke the language of gods."
Behind him, shadows stirred.
"She was never just a girl," said a voice — his seneschal, cloaked in duskweave. "She was the last echo of a promise the gods broke."
Faelan turned to the altar, where Serelith had once left a ring of silver root and ash — a symbol of her oath. It had cracked down the center.
The Codex was waking. And Faelan knew what that meant: realms unraveling, truths long buried clawing back to the surface. He had tried to shelter her, to keep her tethered to this world. But now…
Now the Hollow Court stirred against him.
They whispered that he had grown soft. That he had let the Veil-thorn bloom. That Serelith had become a threat — and that Faelan's loyalty would cost him his crown.
"I would rather lose my throne than bind her again," he said aloud.
But the Court does not tolerate weakness.
And deep beneath the roots of his crumbling palace, something began to move — a sealed chamber of mirrors, forgotten by all but the oldest fae. A prison. Or a gate.
Faelan felt it in his bones: the Court would unleash what had once been chained there.
Unless he found Serelith first.