The corners of the King and Queen’s mouths moved in opposite directions. His just slightly down, hers just slightly up. Neither expression made Raith feel any better about the words that had just slipped from his mouth.

  He hadn’t meant to defy them. Truly, he hadn’t. But he was so tired. Tired of being led around by forces beyond his control, tired of being a pawn in the games of beings so much greater than himself. Something inside him had simply snapped, and now here he was, standing before the thrones of the Seelie Court, trying to recover from what might well be the most foolish thing he’d ever said.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he managed, bowing low. “But I am not powerful enough to be anyone’s champion, least of all for one as great as yourself.”

  If the Seelie King bought that humble act, Raith couldn’t tell. The ruler’s eyes gleamed like molten gold, fathomless and ancient.

  “The Fae Moon waxes,” the King said at last, his voice echoing softly through the grand hall, “and we again require champions within your realm. You, Myth Seekers, have received high praise, both from the Warden of Borders and one of her knights.”

  He gestured lazily toward the relics they carried, the gifts Countess Selene had bestowed upon them. Raith’s hand instinctively went to his weapon, feeling the hum of fae power within it.

  “You hold artifacts of my realm,” the King continued. “You have even adopted one of my court into your family and team. Surely these facts all but confirm your allegiance.”

  Then, his tone darkened ever so slightly. “Although…” His golden eyes narrowed. “I see by the rings you wear, perhaps you have chosen to be champions of the Unseelie Court instead.”

  A musical laugh rippled from the Queen’s throne. “Wouldn’t that be disappointing, my love?” she said, her voice like bells over still water. “I have heard they even lured one of the godlaced into the Winter King’s arms to be their champion. One blessed with the gift of instant travel.”

  Raith blinked. Did they mean the Templar thief? He wound up at the Unseelie Court? His heart stuttered and he raised both hands quickly.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. That guy tried to rob us. I didn’t lure him anywhere! And these rings aren't…look, I don’t work for the Unseelie Court! My association with the Hollow Earl is just so I don’t forget some very important things that happened when I was his guest. That’s all.”

  “I see,” said the King mildly. “Well, as my champions, that is easily enough resolved.”

  He made the smallest gesture, barely a movement of his finger, and Raith felt a pressure wash over his mind, as though a veil had been lifted. “There,” the King said. “You shall now remember. His geas is lifted. The matter is settled. Come, my champions.”

  Thea took a step forward at once, eyes wide with awe, and Zinny followed after her. But the others, Raith, Nyhm, and Tolliver, remained rooted in place. When Thea noticed, she stopped short, glancing back nervously.

  Raith swallowed hard. He forced his voice to stay calm and respectful.

  “With all due respect, Your Highness, we have a lot going on right now. Too many entanglements already. I’m afraid we couldn’t devote the attention your court deserves. It wouldn’t be proper service.”

  The King arched a perfect brow. “Is it [Quests] you seek, then? You mortals are fond of such things. I well know the value of providing my champions the advancement of their Weavers’ Gifts.”

  From the group of people off to their left, an elderly man stepped forward. His frame was thin beneath fine black mage robes, his posture stooped but dignified. Raith had barely noticed him before, overshadowed by the radiance of the thrones themselves.

  “My liege,” the man said, bowing deeply.

  “Not so low, old friend,” the Queen said gently. “You may stand.”

  She gestured toward him. “This is Balathar, a champion of the last age. He chose to live here with us, to spend his final days in peace and comfort unheard of in your realm. He has many levels with which to offer you [Quests].”

  Raith studied the old man, who nodded to him with a serene smile.

  “It has been my honor to serve the King and Queen,” Galathar said. “I no longer require these levels. It would please me to lend it to the next generation, to fight the noble battles of the Summer King, both here and in the mortal realm.”

  Raith held his gaze for a long moment. The man looked content. Peaceful.

  Is this what awaits me, centuries from now? Serving until I’m withered and tired?

  He already knew the answer.

  “I must respectfully ask for time to consider this matter, Your Grace. To discuss it with my team, and come up with terms that do not conflict with our other commitments.”

  The Myth Seekers held their collective breath while the figures on the thrones sat as still as statues. After a pause so long Raith feared he would faint, the King turned his head toward the Queen, who gave the faintest nod. Then, with a single subtle flick of his finger, the air erupted.

  A powerful gust slammed into Raith and the others, sending them tumbling backward as though struck by a hurricane. Raith hit the ground hard, flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs. He coughed, blinking up into a sky now tinted red and hazy. Dust swirled around him.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Scrambling to his feet, he looked around and saw the others doing the same. They were back on the cracked, barren stretch of the gossamer path where they’d first met the Summer Knight.

  Raith turned toward Zinny, brushing sand from his clothing. Her delicate face was pale and tight with worry.

  “So,” Raith said, his voice dry, “does that mean he’s mad at us?”

  Zinny shook her head.

  “Not, mad. If you had angered the King we’d be dead, dead, dead. But he definitely wasn't happy.”

  From the look on Thea’s face, Raith wasn’t sure she was particularly happy, either. But whatever her misgivings she kept them to herself for the time being.

  ***

  The team stepped into their new manor just before sunset, spilling the last of the orange light into the entry hall that could now, surprisingly, be described as 'livable'.

  The ceiling didn’t look like it were waiting for an opportunity to collapse dramatically onto someone’s head and all of the windows were clean and new.

  Masons were still at work on the outer wall, their rhythmic hammering ringing against the stone in the steady cadence of labor. The scaffolding loomed around the hall in a way that Raith found both reassuring and faintly ominous. The smell of fresh plaster and sawdust filled the air, and from somewhere deep inside the house came the muffled curses of a carpenter realizing that his apprentice cut a beam three inches too short.

  Raith stood in the doorway and let out a long breath, feeling his shoulders loosen for the first time since they’d left the gossamer path. Zinny buzzed past him, twirling midair in delight.

  “It doesn't even look like a sluagh den anymore!”

  “That’s high praise,” Raith murmured.

  Thea walked by, brushing her fingers along a newly installed banister as though testing whether it would splinter at her touch.

  “The floorboards have been replaced. That was quick.”

  “Mmm. They’re horizontal now,” Raith said. “I always prefer that in a floor.”

  Nyhm grunted approvingly.

  The team spread out through the keep, each claiming their own small victories, new locks, sealed leaks, windows that opened and closed. For the first time since they laid eyes upon this place, Raith allowed himself to imagine it whole. Safe.

  He found himself lingering by the study, gazing through the thin pane of glass that looked out over the courtyard. The sunset flared against the distant roof tiles. It was a small thing, and took a moment to appreciate it. Raith dug into his satchel for parchment and quill. The ink was half-dried and a little thick, but it would do. He scrawled a note to Guildmaster Embry with brisk efficiency.

  Repairs nearly complete. Your men can begin their part when ready.

  He signed it with a flourish, sealed it with wax, and brought it to the errand boy loitering outside the gate.

  Do we have this kid on salary or something? I'll have to ask Tolliver.

  As the boy dashed off down the path, Raith found himself smiling faintly. He made it as far as his room before the exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. It wasn’t just the weariness of travel or the ache in his legs from trudging through the dream lands. It was something deeper, like the fatigue had settled into his bones and was building a small, unpleasant house there.

  There was a bed in here that he didn’t remember ordering. Wasn’t even sure he even wanted, once the mirror got set up. But for now he was glad it there. He collapsed onto the bed and didn’t even bother removing his boots.

  Sleep took him immediately. And the dream returned just as swiftly.

  He stood in the wreckage of Beckhaven, outside the same cafe when he’d last had this dream. He wandered forward in a daze, certain even the screams in the distance were identical.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  “I got rid of it!” He yelled into the sky, but no one answered,

  “Do you here me, Amaris! The key isn't here anymore. I GOT RID OF IT!!”

  Raith woke with a strangled sound halfway between a gasp and a curse.

  His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Sweat slicked his temples. For one dizzying second he didn’t recognize where he was, the wooden ceiling too high, the flicker of candlelight too far away, and panic clawed up the back of his throat.

  He sat up fast, one hand gripping the edge of the bed as the dream unraveled behind his eyes.

  “Weaver’s help me,” he muttered. “Not again.”

  He rubbed his face and tried to steady his breathing. The same dream, down to every detail. Every time he thought it might fade, it returned sharper, more vivid.

  Raith stood and paced, the floor creaking softly underfoot.

  Why would they still be coming?

  He pulled on a warm shirt against the chilling night and stepped out into the hallway. The house had gone quiet this late, only the faint crackle of the hearth broke the silence. He made his way downstairs their repurposed strategy room and got a fire going.

  The flickering light caught on the edges of scattered parchment: maps, letters, sketches, and a few half-finished lists.

  Raith dropped into a chair, elbows on the table, and stared at the disarray.

  “All right,” he said under his breath. “Let’s think this through.”

  He started piecing it together aloud, as if the sound of his own voice might trick his brain into working faster.

  “The teleporter that got away ended up in the Unseelie King’s hands. Which means Venton probably doesn’t know where the horn went.”

  His reflection stared back from the darkened window, hair disheveled, eyes shadowed and tired. Raith grimaced.

  “Right. So Venton thinks we still have the horn here, in Beckhaven, obviously.”

  He could see it as clearly as if it were written on the walls. High Emissary Venton, furious that the Myth Seekers were in possession of the prize they had cheated him out of, would still be sending his Templars to fetch it.

  Raith leaned back in his chair, puffed up his cheeks and blew out a long breath.

  “Perfect,” Raith muttered. “Just fucking perfect.”

  He stood and started pacing again, hands shoved into his pockets. His mind was already spinning through possibilities, none of them good.

  He could try to warn the Archduke. But the King seemed reluctant to commit his army yet, and no one dared to meet the Templar’s in their stronghold.

  He could run. Weaver’s knew that option had its appeal. But where? Besides, he wouldn’t leave his home and family to such a fate.

  Or…

  Raith stopped pacing.

  Or he could stop the problem at its source.

  He didn’t like where his thoughts were leading, but they kept walking that path anyway. Stubbornly, step by inevitable step. If Venton was the one directing the Templars, if he was the one who believed Beckhaven still held the horn and refused to let go of his grudge against Raith, then there was only one way to make sure he never sent them.

  He could remove him. Permanently.

  He let that thought hang there for a long time, heavy and uncomfortable. The candle flame wavered in the draft.

  Kill Venton.

  He didn’t like saying it, even in his head. Raith was no assassin and the only one he'd ever met had nearly murdered his entire team. But the truth was simpler than his conflicted feelings. As long as Venton lived, his city and his team would never be free of his reach. He took a long drink from the one of the fancy crystal bottles that Tolliver had ordered to adorn the bar. Something sharp and citrusy burned its way down, the feeling giving way as the first quiet pulse of resolve settle into his chest.

  It was time to plan an assassination.