Serelith awoke to the feeling of vines coiling around her ankles.
Not tight — not painful — but sentient. They guided her gently, drawing her deeper into the Vale. Shadows stirred among twisted trees, and the air shimmered with a silvery light that bent unnaturally, like a memory struggling to stay intact.
A voice, like glass breaking underwater, echoed from the trees:
"She walks with the Mark. She brings the scent of sleeping gods."
Serelith tightened her grip on the bone-handled dagger she'd inherited from the Obsidian Temple. It glowed faintly in her hand — not with warmth, but with the cold pulse of warding magic. Still, it did little to comfort her as she stepped into the clearing.
There they were: the Hollow Court.
Not fae as she'd imagined from stories — no giggles, no wings of gossamer or moonlit laughter. These were creatures carved of bark and rot, clothed in thorned silk, with eyes that held entire seasons in decay. They stood in a crescent around a throne made of petrified root and crowned with feathers of extinct birds.
Upon it sat Faelan, the Autumn King — ancient, cruel, beautiful.
"You've come," he said, his voice as dry as fallen leaves. "The child of ash and prophecy."
"I didn't ask for this," Serelith replied. Her voice was steadier than she felt. "I only want answers."
Faelan tilted his head, birdlike. "Then I shall give you truth — though truth always costs more than lies."
He stood, walking down the twisted roots toward her, each step causing the earth to groan. He reached out — and Serelith flinched. Still, she did not back away.
"You bear the Mark of the First Tongue," Faelan said, his fingers hovering near her forehead. "A language that predates even gods. A power buried by the creators themselves, locked away beyond the Veil."
She met his eyes. "Why me?"
"Because your bloodline was touched by what sleeps in the Deep Realm. You are not wholly mortal. And the Veil is thinning. The god of chaos — the one they cast out, the Unmaker — is clawing at the fabric of the world."
The Court murmured. A low rustle of cloaks, feathers, and warnings.
"You will be his door," Faelan said. "Unless you become its guardian."
Serelith took a step back. "I'm not ready."
"You were not meant to be ready. You were meant to become."
Another figure stepped forward — a woman whose skin rippled like ink in water, her mouth stitched closed with light.
Maeryn, Faelan's sister. The Keeper of Forgotten Names. She extended her hand, and with a whisper of power, conjured a vision from the smoke: cities falling to shadow, stars blinking out, a serpent of fire coiling through the heavens.
"You must travel to the Temple of Lost Echoes," Faelan said. "There lies the Codex of Unspoken Tongues. It may teach you to wield the First Tongue — or unravel you in the attempt."
Serelith stared at the vision. It pulsed with possibility… and doom.
She nodded. "I'll go."
The fairies bowed, their wings like broken glass catching moonlight.
Faelan smiled, a crack across his face like splintered bark.
"Then the game begins."