To be vindicated was a heady drug. The Council?s decision to enforce a racial exile had not been unanimous, shortsighted fools that they were, but they?d had the power to enforce it. They lived in the hope of the ?not as bad as it seems? of the ?avoidable if we use our cunning? of the ?what happens if it turns out to be something we need?. Prophecy didn?t care as long as there was a chance. They should have just killed him, the Stormlord, the one they left behind, that was the only way to be sure. Prediction couldn?t bear fruit if the branch it grew on died.

Three years ago there was Fae magic where none should have remained. Three years ago a hole was ripped from one plane to the next, delivering what was damnation or salvation to the distant shore the Council thought was ?far enough?. But they didn?t notice. They didn?t notice because after so many years, convinced of their decision making, the Council had stopped looking. By then the one they?d left had all but abandoned his heritage. By then there were other reasons to remain in exile. The rest of the native races were tearing each other apart in a war that looked like it would be the end of the world they came from. Why return?

The Council wasn?t watching, but on that day the Trickster was. His Court had supported the eradication of the Sylphs as a whole, had resisted the abandonment of their hunting grounds. Now, in this new land, they were second class diaspora at best. Surviving at the whim of the native Families they could latch onto. Tolerated, Ingratiating, Disgusting. He would see it rectified. He would architect a new branch. He would bring the war to the Council.

But first he had to find his weapon.


-------------------------------------------------- ---------------------


Three Years Ago, A World Away


They?d almost had it in their grasp. The Wind Demon, the suspected key to the missing souls that would allow for the fulfillment of the Collector?s contract. Remington?s cell had been all but wiped out by the storm she had called on top of the western district of Ravenhold. Their blunder had misplaced her, and even the resistance seemed at a loss to find her from the scattered reports of their spies.

To say the Collector was angry was a gross understatement. Find it, find her. The refrain of the order was a blade at their throats.

The Scouting Legion Commander had been the one to whisper of the witch?s existence when the gap in the Collection had been revealed, to suggest that the face from her past might satisfy the goals of the enigmatic figure her sire had brought her to serve. It should have been her sent to capture the witch, she knew what she was capable of, she would have succeeded where Remington had failed. Now the commander picked through the ruins of the Ravenhold at night, a scowl twisting her features. In another time, her blond hair and blue eyes had been a commodity sought after, but now the sight of her hair inspired trepidation, and the single blue eye that remained next to the scar that had robbed her of sight in the second confirmed it. It should have been her to hunt this prey, their history demanded no less.

?I think I know what you?re looking for.? The commander froze in her inspection of the broken western wall, turning with a hand on the hilt of her sword. She knew that voice, and even surrounded by those with talents for necromancy, she shouldn?t be hearing it. There hadn?t been enough of Remington to put back together, not even as one of the Artificers? pet experiments.

Yet there he was, lounging on a broken slab of granite with the untouchable air that had always infuriated her. With speed born of her martial life and the vestiges of her transformation, the commander closed the distance and laid the sharp of her blade against his neck. ?And who the hell are you?? She hissed.

He didn?t move, not even when a trickle of dark blood dripped down to stain the otherwise pristine collar of his shirt. It looked like Remington, with his salt and pepper hair and his soft, pampered face barely camouflaging the superiority that was always in his eyes. She was almost convinced, or would have been if she hadn?t just come from helping to identify his corpse. This close, he smelled of the herbs the Artificers had been using to cover the stench of decay and she struggled not to gag at the heavy scent of burnt cinnamon.

?An invested outsider.? The man sniffed -- even that dismissive gesture was the same, pulled straight out of her memory of glaring at him across a room -- and the urge to press her blade in further was hard to resist. It was almost like a gift, the chance to kill him twice. Yet, what he said stayed her hand. ?I know where she went, your 'Wind Demon'.?

?Where?? It was impossible to fully restrain the hunger that laced that single word question and he smiled when he heard it. ?Where, damn you? I don?t know what you are but the Artificers will figure it out later if you don?t tell me what you know.?

For a moment, the face of Remington slipped and she found herself looking at a man with skin tainted purple. With eyes like a goat, with sharp inhuman features. She?d seen those angles before, mirrored in a jawline she?d traced night after night. A Faerie, a live one. ?Where the rest of my kind went. You want them, don?t you??

?What?s to stop me from just taking you, instead?? The rewards showered upon her would be numerous, she knew, but she sensed there was more to his offer.

?You don?t want to risk them giving your hunt to someone else again, do you?? And there it was. She felt nauseous, and not just from the scent of him. His voice was oily in a way that made her skin crawl, that made the sanctity of her mind feel violated, and it reminded her of a strange dream she?d had some nights prior. ?You won?t reach the place where she?s gone without my help, and it?s far better to ask for forgiveness instead of permission, isn?t it? Commander??

?I?m listening.?

Rhy'Din, April, 2016

?There?s been a shift. One of her allies is dead, and I know I didn?t order it. Report.? The commander?s words were punctuated by the soft scrape of a pocket whetstone along the length of one of her lieutenant's knives. Three of them had gathered in the converted study in a loose constellation past the edge of her desk. A fourth listener, wearing the face of said dead man, perched on the arm of a chair as if he were allergic to the very idea of sitting.

Transporting men from the home plane to this strange, other world had taken time. Supplies even longer. Slowly the manor came to life and the network grew. Maps, hand drawn, papered the majority of one wall while another was dominated by a strange array of mirrors that reflected nothing of what was in the room.

The first to speak was the man whose face was dominated by a scar that fixed his features into a near-permanent sneer. ?She?s isolated. Withdrawn. After the incident at the end of the second month, she?s rattled. Her movements have changed. She?s not been going to that apartment near the docks as frequently to see the one we assume is her lover and he?s been occupied elsewhere.?

?That?s not what she asked Thatcher, we?re talking about the dead one,? drawled the man sharpening his dagger.

?It?s relevant, Prist, people **** when they?re grieving. What have you got, then??

?The new caster, the woman she met with recently, she seems to be connected to one of her allies here. The dead one. We?re not entirely sure how he died, but her distress was evident.?

?Salome,? said the dead man, ?the woman she met, her name is Salome.? His smile seemed to carry some private joke.

?Mark it down,? the commander insisted, the order directed towards the larger man leaning just inside the door. ?Have someone assigned to watch her movements if she decides to stay in town.? Then, she turned her eye on the specter smirking at them in the center of the room. ?It?s been a week and he?s still deceased. That can only mean she can?t fix it easily. That failure will bring ruin to whatever remains of her confidence.?

?There?s a complication.? The low register voice came from the man by the door.

Four faces turned towards the door, curiosity even on the face of the dead man. Garrick wasn?t known to draw out his reports, but in that moment he was pulling out a colorful looking flyer and stepping towards the desk. He passed it into the commanders hands and confusion knotted her brow. ?What the hell does a seasonal festival have to do with anything? Why would a fairy party be a complication??

?If anything,? agreed the man perched like a shadow between them, ?it?s better for the Council to be distracted with revels.?

?Look at the name below, the one they have picked,? the swordsman insisted.

Silence as a blue eye scanned, then hand shaking fury as she derisively tossed the flyer towards the Fae in their midst. ?What is the meaning of this? Queen??

The flyer drifted to the floor, but he didn?t bend to retrieve it, he could read the words from where he perched and his knowing smile had become a scowl. ?It?s an honorary title, but it?s a problem. They can?t know who she actually is or they never would have allowed the locals to offer her up for the position.? Frustrated hands raked through hair that wasn?t his. ?We won?t be able to touch her for months with this, no matter how well timed the death is. They?ll be watching too closely, The Council might figure out what she is if we show too much interest.?

?I don?t give a damn about this Council, I?ve waited--?

?Commander, with respect,? Garrick spoke between the two of them at the risk of his own neck. ?It?s not just the Fae, this is a very public event. If she goes missing, someone will investigate and we?ve managed to stay undetected this long but I don?t think we?d be able to avoid that level of scrutiny.?

?And what do you suggest?? Dangerously calm, the question delivered with a sharp, narrowed stare that wanted to pin the interrupting source against the wall and bleed him dry.

Both Thatcher and Prist did their best not to make eye contact while Garrick paled and dared not look away. ?J-just give it a little more time, Commander. We?ll redouble the surveillance and find a better opening. One that no one will question."