Speaker 1: A forest of earth and mud. An Arcane Heart Studio production,
created and written by Eansley Bay. Chapter nine, The Watcher
in the Woods.
Speaker 2: I wake to the memory of light, Not the harsh,
fluorescent glare of my old apartment, not the gritty Philadelphia
dawn that always felt more gray than gold. This light
is different, warmer. It slants through the tall windows of
our bedroom, our bedroom, I'm still getting used to that,
and paints everything in shades of honey and amber. Kier's
arm is draped across my waist, heavy and warm. I
can feel his breath against my hair, Slow and steady, asleep,
the alphas son, the perfect predator, vulnerable and soft beside me.
I should get up there. Things to do, probably pack things,
manner things, the endless administrative reality of life at slatefaul
that I'm still learning to navigate. But I don't move. Instead,
I lie in the golden light and think about what
I saw last night. The wisp. I'd almost convinced myself.
I imagined it a trick of the fading light, a stray
reflection my tired eyes playing tricks after the long hike
from the Sentinel camp. But more I think about it,
the more certain, I become it was real, A pale
blue flicker, bobbing between the trees, like a lantern, carried
by an invisible hand, moving wrong, too deliberate, too purposeful
to be anything natural, and then gone. Here stirs beside me,
his arm tightening around my waist. I feel the shift
in his breathing the moment consciousness returns. You're awake, he
murmurs against my hair, m thinking dangerous. His lips brush
the curve of my neck, and warmth blooms through the
bond between us. What about I turn in his arms,
facing him. Those gray eyes are soft with sleep, the
hard edges of the alpha's air smoothed away by intimacy.
In this light, in this moment, he looks almost boyish.
Last night, I say, when we were coming back from
the sentinels, I saw something in the forest. He raises
an eyebrow, something a light, pale blue. It was moving
between the trees, and then it just vanished. I watch
his face, carefully, looking for alarm, for concern, for the
tightening of his jaw that signals danger. Instead, he smiles
a wisp. He says, like it's the most natural thing
in the world. The timberlands are full of old magic thive.
It was probably just curious about you. Curious you're new.
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his
touch achingly gentle part of the territory now but still unfamiliar.
The forest is getting to know you. Something loosens in
my chest, not just relief, something warmer, the idea that
the land itself is aware of me, watching over me,
welcoming me. So it's not dangerous. The wisps, he shakes
his head. They're guardians, if anything, old spirits. They've been
here longer than us, longer than the Fay Treaty, longer
than anyone remembers. His smile softens. If one was watching you,
it means the forest approves. I let that sink in
the forest approves of me, the Philadelphia genealogist who stumbled
into a world of werewolves and secrets and violence, the
outsider who somehow became pack. I like that, I admit.
Kir pulls me closer, and for a long moment we
just lie there, tangled together in the golden light. The
bond hums between us, warm and steady. Outside the window,
the autumn forest blazes with color. Everything feels impossibly perfect. Later,
after kre leaves for pack business, something about timber contracts
and a meeting with the county surveyor, I find myself restless.
The manner is quiet. Malcolm is somewhere in his study,
doing whatever alphas do when they're not presiding over dinners
or making terrifying pronouncements. Koy is somewhere. I've learned not
to look for him. He appears when he wants to appear,
which isn't often. So I walk. The grounds of Slate
Fall are vast, stretching from the manor, down to the
creek and up into the ridge line. I've explored bits
and pieces over the past weeks, but always with kir,
always with the destiny in mind. Today I just wonder.
The autumn colors are stunning, impossible.
Speaker 3: Really.
Speaker 2: Back in Philly, fall was immuted affair, brown leaves and gutters,
the occasional orange tree struggling against the concrete. Here, it's
like someone turned up the saturation on reality. The maples
burn crimson in gold, the oaks glow amber. Even the
air seems tinted, thick with the scent of wood smoke
and dying leaves, and something sweeter underneath. I follow a
path I don't remember taking before, winding through a stand
of old growth trees toward the eastern edge of the property.
The sunlight filters through the canopy and shafts, and I
catch myself thinking of churches, cathedrals, sacred spaces. Maybe that's
what this is, A sacred space, a sanctuary. It's home.
The thought doesn't feel strange anymore. I'm so lost in
the beauty of it all that I almost miss the
movement at the tree line, a flicker, pale blue gone.
Before I can fully focus on it, I stop, my
heart suddenly loud in my ears. Another wisp, It, howevers
at the edge of the forest, maybe fifty yards away,
bobbing gently like a balloon caught in an invisible current. Watching,
I'm certain of it, watching me for a long moment,
neither of us moves. Then slowly I raise my hand.
I wave. The wisp bobs once, almost like a nod,
and then drifts backward into the shadows, fading until it's gone.
I stand there, hands still raised, a ridiculous smile spreading
across my face. The forest approves. I'm still smiling when
I return to the terrace and find something waiting for me.
Wild flowers, A small arrangement sitting on the stone balustrade
where there was nothing this morning. Purple asters, goldenrod. I
have something white and delicate. I don't recognize. They're arranged
in a pattern, not random, not wind blown, deliberate, almost artistic.
I look around, but there's no one, just the empty terrace,
the distant roar of the waterfall, and these flowers that
appeared from nowhere. A gift, the thought arise with unexpected certainty,
not from a person, from the forest, from the magic
that saturates this valley, the old power that Kure talks about,
like it's as natural as gravity. The magic is courting me.
I pick up one of the asters, twirling it between
my fingers. The petals are impossibly soft, almost silky. The
scent is sweet, but not coin clean and bright, like
the air after rain. Thank you, I say aloud, feeling
only slightly foolish. The breeze stirs the leaves above me,
and I swear, I swear, I hear something like laughter,
light and distant, carried on the wind. I tuck the
aster behind my ear and go inside dinner. That evening
is warm, not just the food, though the roast is exceptional,
perfectly seasoned, paired with root vegetables, roasted in something that
tastes like honey and time. The atmosphere is warm. Malcolm
is engaged, asking about my walk, commenting on the weather,
telling stories about the forest that I suspect are older
than the nation. Here sits beside me, his hand finding
mine beneath the table. At every opportunity, the bond pulses
between us, steady and bright. Even Koy is present, though
he says little. He moves his food around his plate,
answers direct questions with monosyllables, and stares at his glass
of wine like it contains the secrets of the universe.
But he's there at the table with us. It's not much,
but it's something. After dinner, Kiir and I walk out
onto the terrace. The sun has set, painting the sky
and streaks of pink and purple, and the first stars
are beginning to emerge. And the moon, God, the moon,
It hangs over the ridge like something from a painting, enormous, luminous,
so bright, it casts shadows so close I feel like
I could reach out and touch it. The light it
throws is silver gold, transforming the forest below into something
from a fairy tale. It's beautiful, I breathe. Kiir wraps
his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on
my shoulder. There's a full moon in three days. We
always run on the full moon. The whole pack, even
the sentinels come down from the hills. Well, I you'll
run with us. I can hear the smile in his voice,
not as a wolf, obviously, but with us part of
the hunt. I lean back into his word warmth. Watching
the moon rise higher, the forest seems to glow beneath it,
the autumn colors muted now, but somehow richer, more mysterious.
Somewhere in those trees, wisps are watching old spirits, guardians,
and they approve of me. The thought fills me with
something I haven't felt in a long time, something i'd
almost forgotten existed. Peace, purer, uncomplicated peace. I turn in
Kier's arms, reaching up to cup his face. His eyes
catch the moonlight, reflecting it back like mirrors. I love
it here, I tell him I love this. I love
He kisses me before I can finish, and I decide
the words can wait. We have time we have all
the time in the world, Chapter ten, The enchantment.
Speaker 3: The world is. I can't remember the last time I
felt this light, this unburdened. The weight I've carried since childhood,
the expectations, the duty, the crushing certainty that one long
step could destroy everything my family has built. It's still
there somewhere, but for the first time in my life,
it feels manageable, survivable. I stand at the window of
my father's study, watching the morning light spill across the valley.
The autumn colors are impossible today, not just beautiful, saturated.
The maples blaze like they're on fire. The oaks glow
amber and bronze. Even the evergreens seem greener, more vital,
as if the forest itself is celebrating. Maybe it is
You're distracted. I turn my father sits behind his desk,
paper spread before reading, glasses perched on his nose. He
looks good, better than he has in weeks. The shadows
under his eyes have faded. The tension that's lived in
his shoulders since the natre seems to have finally loosened.
I'm admiring the view, I say. He removes his glasses,
studying me with those gray eyes that missed nothing. The view.
Is that what we're calling her now? I don't bother
hiding a smile among other things, he huffs, not quite
a laugh, but close, closer than I've heard from him
in years. The timber contracts, he says, gesturing to the papers.
Hendrix wants to renegotiate the northern parcel, something about access,
roads and environmental impact. I'll handle it, I know you will.
He leans back in his chair, and for a moment
I see something unfamiliar in his express not pride exactly,
something softer. You've handled everything lately, the natter, the aftermath,
the He pauses, searching for the word, the adjustment. He means,
viv my mate, the human woman who crashed into our
world and somehow became the center of it. She's worth it,
I say, simply, yes. He holds my gaze. I believe
she is. The words hang between us, and I realize
this is as close to a blessing as Malcolm's slight
will ever give. Not spoken outright, that's not his way,
but present acknowledged. I take it. The pack business is boring.
I don't mean that as a complaint. After the chaos
of the past months, the agency, the natter, the violence
that nearly destroyed us. Boring is a gift. Boring means
no threats. Boring means stability. Boring means I can sit
in meetings about timber rights and land surveys and actually
care about the outcomes, rather than seeing them as obstacles
between crises. Hendrix, the timber contractor is a good man human,
but his family has worked with ours for three generations.
The negotiation takes two hours. We're agree on new terms,
hands are shaken, coffee is drunk. No, it's almost disorienting.
By afternoon, I find myself a something I haven't had
in months. Free time, no meetings, no emergencies, no agency
threats lurking at the border, just time. I use it
to find my make Viv is in the library, curled
up in one of the leather chairs by the window,
a thick bulk open in her lap. The afternoon light
catches the auburn highlights and her dark hair, and something
in a chest clenches at the sight of her. It's
that she is mine. The thought is primal, possessive, and
I've stopped fighting it. The bond between us pulses with
a warmth. The board is unintoxicating. I can feel her
contentment like a second heart beat, her curiosity too. She's
reading something about Appalachian folklore. I realize, still researching, still digging,
still so perfectly, stubbornly her. She looks up as I approach,
and her smile could light the whole valley. You're staring,
she says, I'm admiring same thing. I sett along to
the arm of her chair, my hand finding the curve
of her shoulder, the mark there, My mark pulses beneath
my palm, and the bomb between us flares with shared warmth.
Find anything interesting? I nod toward the book Local Legends,
Wisps and willow. The wisps something called the hollow's breath.
She frowned slightly. Most of it's crillly embellished, but there's
a pattern, references to lights in the forest, to the
land itself, being aware. It is aware. I told you,
I know. Her smile softens. I'm just trying to understand it,
all of it, the magic, the history, how it all
fixed together. Something warm blooms in my chest. This woman,
this brilliant, stubborn, endlessly curious woman. She isn't content to
simply accept. She wants to know, to understand the world.
She's chosen to make it hers. I love you, I say,
her eyes widened slightly. Who said it before, of course,
But there's something about the afternoon, like the quiet intimacy
of the moment, that makes the words feel them. I
love you too, she says, and then softer. Is it
strange that I'm happy here, actually genuinely happy. No, I
lean down, pressing my forehead to hers. It's not strange
at all. Dinner is a revelation. The food is exceptional.
It always is. The Manner's kitchen is operated by humans
who have served the Pack for generations. But tonight everything
tastes more. The wine is richer, the venison is more succulent.
Even the bread fresh from the oven seems to carry
a warmth that seeps into my bones. My father is engaged, animated.
He tells stories I haven't heard in years, tales of
the old Pack, of his father's time, of conflicts resolved,
an alliance is forged. He laughs at something, Viv says,
actually laughs, And the sound is so unexpected that I
nearly drop my fork. Even KOI is present. My brother
sits at his usual place, silent but watchful. He barely
touches his food, barely acknowledges anyone directly. But he's here
at the table with us. And when Viv asks some
of a simple question, something about a book she found
in the library, he answers briefly, reluctantly, but he answers.
It's not much. But after weeks of watching him disappear
into himself or leave for long stretches somewhere, it feels
like a victory. After dinner, Iven, I walk out on
to the terrace. The moon is rising. It's not full,
that's still two days away, but it's close, a gibbous moon,
nearly round, hanging over the eastern ridge like a silver lantern.
The lighted casts is extraordinary. The forest below seems to glow,
the autumn colors muted now but somehow richer, more mysterious.
It's so beautiful, fave Breeze. I wrap my arms around
her from behind, pulling her close. The bond is bright
between us, warm and steady, and I can feel her
wonder bleeding into me, her joy, her peace. This, I think,
this is what we fought for. The full moon run
is in two days. I murmur against your hair. The
whole pack gathers, even the sentinels come down from the hills.
We run together as one. Oh, can I watch? I laugh? Sure,
while you're running with us, part of the pack, part
of the hunt. She turns in my arms, looking up
at me. The moonlight catches her eyes, makes them shine.
I want that, she says. I want to be part
of it, all of it. I kiss her. The bond
flares between us, brighter than it's ever been. I can
feel her heart beat sinking with mine, her breath matching
my rhythm. For a moment, we're not two people, were one,
being connected at a level deeper than flesh. The moon
rises higher, a forest glows, and somewhere in the back
of my mind, a small voice whispers, but this is
too much, too bright, too perfect. I know it. We
have earned this, We have bled for this. Whatever price
the world demands, we have already paid it. The happiness
is ours tonight. I believe that.
Speaker 1: Chapter eleven, the Magical Dance of Dust, It starts with
the dust.
Speaker 2: I'm sitting in the library trying to focus on a
genealogy chart I started compiling for the slates, but I
keep getting distracted by the light. The afternoon sun is
streaming through the high windows, catching the dust motes in
the air. But they aren't just drifting. They're dancing, but
not in the way dust normally dances, random, chaotic, subject
to the whims of air currents. These moats are moving
in perfect spirals, clockwise, then counterclockwise, then lifting in unison,
like a curtain rising on a stage. I watch them
for five minutes, then ten. Stop it, I whisper. They
don't stop, if anything, They spin faster, glittering like crushed diamonds.
It's beautiful. It's objectively, undeniably beautiful. It's also making the
hair on the back of my arms stand up. Vivienne,
I jump, knocking my pen off the table. It rolls
across the floor and stops perfectly parallel to the edge
of the rug. Malcolm is standing in the doorway. He's
wearing a suit as always, but his tie is loosened slightly,
a rare concession to the fact that we're actually relaxing
for once. I didn't mean to startle you, he says,
you walk too quietly. I say, retreating the pen. It's
a predator. Trait. You should work on stomping more. He smiles,
that new, genuine smile that still catches me off guard.
I'll take it under advisement. He steps into the room,
his eyes sweeping a space. It's lovely in here today.
The light it is, I say, it's magical. I say
the words with purpose, not as a challenge, but an
observation of what is objectively true. What we're looking at
is impossible. He pauses, just for a second. His gaze
flickers to the window, to the spiraling dust, and I
see a shadow pass over his face, a tightening of
the jaw, a flash of something that looks suspiciously like concern, Malcolm,
I ask. The mask snaps back into place instantly. Just tired,
he says smoothly. The timber negotiations took longer than expected.
Dealing with humans is tiring. I don't take offense because
I know that Malcolm didn't mean me. I'm pack now.
Maybe you should rest. I say the words gently, meaning
to be supportive, But he's back to being the alpha.
We have a guest arriving tomorrow, he interrupts, effectively closing
the subject. Koi's friend from the university, right Maya, you
remember KOI talks about her sometimes in between brooding silences.
Malcolm sighs, moving to the fireplace. The flames rear up
as he approaches, crackling with a rhythmic pop pop hiss
that sounds vaguely like applause. He stares into the fire,
his expression unreadable. I worry about him, he says quietly.
I told them not to bring a human here. It's
too soon. He's too careless. He needs a friend. I
don't say more than that. It's clear to everyone that
Koi is alone and suffering. Perhaps he turns to face
me as half as the heart is filled with flashes
of slaves for memories I saw, and in my opinion,
I felt a stranger with five men to watch it.
I felt a road or a pain to it when
a son would be slave. I look at Malcolm, the
alpha who wanted me dead a month ago, now standing
in my library discussing his son's love life. I look
at the fire, I look at the dust, and suddenly
I'm more concerned about the magic. It's snuck on me
and it's new. Keir says, it's normal, But how can
magic be normal? Perhaps I'm just too human, but it
doesn't feel right. It's just the house welcoming me. I mutter,
what was that? Malcolm asks.
Speaker 1: Nothing.
Speaker 2: I smile at him, and this time it reaches my eyes,
just thinking that we should make sure the guest room
is ready. If Maya is coming, we want her to
be comfortable. We do. Malcolm agrees, we want everyone to
be comfortable. He leaves the room, then walking with that
silent predatory grace. The fire dips as he exits, then
flares back up. I sit back in my chair. The
pen is still perfectly parallel to the rug. The dust
is still dancing. It's fine, I tell myself. Everything is fine.
If the magic wants to perform for us, if it
wants to turn our lives into a perfect golden fairy tale,
who am I to stop it? Maybe we deserve a
little magic, Maybe we deserve to be pampered. I pick
up the pen and go back to the genealogy chart. Outside,
the wind picks up, rustling the autumn leaves. It sounds
like a melody, a lullaby. I hewme along. The notes
are pure, crystal clear and utterly flawless. Too flawless, But
I close my eyes anyway, and I let the perfect
golden song pull me under.
Speaker 1: Chapter twelve, The Girl from Morgantown.
Speaker 2: Maya is a burst of me on in a world
of natural color. He arrives in a beat up Honda
Civic that rattles up the driveway like it's complaining about
the altitude. She steps out wearing a bright yellow sweater
in combat boots. Her hair a riot of curls her
smile wide enough to swallow the whole, brooding slate family whole.
Oh my god, she says, staring up at the manner.
This looks like falling water. Whoever designed this owes a
debt to Frank Lloyd Wright. POI is standing beside her,
hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks terrified. He
also looks alive. That would be Frank Lloyd Wright, he mumbles,
and it's clear he has no clue how to deal
with the force of nature that is bouncing in front
of him. Hah, she laughs, nudging him with her shoulder.
I love your understated humor, COI. POI doesn't correct her that. No,
it actually is a Frank Lloyd Right house, and it
actually predates falling water.
Speaker 4: Me.
Speaker 2: I'm amazed at Cooy's willingness just to give spectator to
the manic energy of this visitor from Morgan. I watch
from the terrace steps, feeling an immediate desperate surge of affection.
She's so normal, so human, so blissfully unaware of wolf
politics or forest wisps, or the fact that the architectural
marvel she's admiring was a war zone less than a
month ago. Hi, I say, stepping forward, I'm viv. She
turns that megawatts smile on me. The sister in law
Koe talks about you well, he grunts about you, which
I interpret his deep affection. That's usually safe, I agree,
offering my hand. She bypasses the handshake and hugs me.
It's a real hug, warm, fierce, smelling of vanilla and
stale college beer. I stiffened for a second, then melt
into it. I didn't realize how much I needed this,
just contact with someone who doesn't have claws. I'm Maya,
she says, pulling back. I'm sorry, sorry, friend truding Coy
said it was okay, but I feel like I should
have brought a offering, maybe a goat. I mean, we
are in West Virginia. Is this a goat kind of
family once again. I fall in love with her. On
a bashed humor. Wine is usually preferred, I say, but
we have plenty good because I'm gonna need it. This
place is. She spins around, taking in the forest, the waterfall,
the towering stone walls. It's unreal. She has no idea.
Dinner is a production. I don't know who ordered it,
Malcolm or the house itself, but the dining room looks
like a scene from a movie. The table is set
with the good silver. The candles are burning with a golden,
steady light that seems to make everyone look ten years younger.
The music, a soft classical melody, seems to be coming
from the walls themselves. Maya is in heaven. She chatters
happily through the first course, asking questions, telling stories about
the university, teasing Koi until he actually smiles. It's a
brittle smile, anxious and sharp, but it's there. He's watching
her like she's the only source of gravity in the room.
Possessive hungy, but also and I can't quite believe him
saying this tender across the table. Malcolm is watching too,
but his gaze isn't tender. Using any definition of the word.
He looks like he's watching a bond time or count down.
Every time. Maya laughs a little too loud. Every time
she touches Koi's arm, the ELF's hand tightens on his wineglass, so,
Maya says. Turning to Malcolm, Ki says, the family has
been here since like the dawn of time. Is that true?
Since the land was settled? Malcolm says smoothly. My ancestors
helped survey the valley. That's amazing. In Morgantown, anything older
than nineteen fifty is considered historic. You guys have real
history here. She gestures around the room and the atmosphere.
It's so, I don't know, intense, but in a good way.
We value our privacy. Malcolm says. It's a warning Maya
miss Is it completely? I bet it's like its own
little world up here. She takes a sip of wine.
This wine is incredible, by the way, what is it
a local vintage? Kere says, speaking up for the first time.
He catches my eye and winks he's enjoying this. The
novelty of it, the human element. I'm enjoying it too. Mostly,
it's nice to have another girl around, someone to roll
my eyes with when the men start posturing, someone who
thinks pack business just means a family company. But I'm
also terrified because the house is trying too hard. The
candles are too bright, the music is too perfect, the
food is too delicious. It's like the magic is feeding
off Maya's wonder, amplifying itself to match her expectations. You
want a fairy tale, it seems to say, I'll give
you a fairy tale. After dinner, we move to the terrace.
The sun has gone down and the night is warm,
unnaturally warm for late October. The air smells of jasmine
and night blooming flowers that definitely shouldn't be growing in
West Virginia. Maya leans against the stone balustrade, looking out
at the dark tree line. It's so quiet, she says.
In the city, there's always noise here. It's like the
world is holding its breath. It's peaceful, Coy says, standing
just behind her, a shadow, a protector, it is, She agrees,
Then she gasps, Oh, Look, fireflies, hundreds of them. They
drift up from the garden below a rising tide of
golden sparks. They swirl around the terrace and sing in
those perfect, impossible spirals I saw in the library. Maya laughs,
clapping her hands together. They're dazzling. I've never seen so many.
The fireflies shift, they move together, forming a shape in
the air, a heart, then a star, then unmistakably an M.
Did you see that, Maya points, delighted they made a
meter's for Maya. She turns to me, her eyes shining
with pure, unadulterated joy. Why that is the coolest thing
I have ever seen, she says. Do they always do
that spell things? Her face go serious, and she suddenly
looks at KOI. Of course fireflies can't spell. Are those
tiny drones? She claps her hands together. Did you welcome
me with firefly drones? I look at the fireflies, still
holding their perfect ms the darkness. I look at Koi,
who is staring at them with a mixture of awe
and horror. I look at kir whose smile has slipped
just a fraction. I want to say, yes, Maya, those
are magical fireflies, and the magic has become omni present.
But it's too soon, it's not place, and honestly, at
this point, it's kind of frightening. Yes, KOI finally mumbles,
just little drones. I thought you'd like it. She rushes
over and gives Koy her patented tight hug. I love it,
thank you. But as I watch the lights dance, the
not in my stomach titans. It's not cute, it's not romantic.
It's intelligent, and it's watching us.
Speaker 1: Chapter thirteen, The Long Night.
Speaker 2: Something is wrong with the dark. I wake up with
that thought. It's not a panicked thought, not like the
adrenaline soaked terror of the natter. It's a quiet, bone
deep certainty, the kind of reptilian brain instinct that tells
you the predator is in the room before you actually
see it. I roll over and check the digital clock
on the bedside table. Seven am. I blink, check again.
The red numbers glare back at me, unwavering, seven zero zero.
I look at the window. It's pitch black. Not early
dawn black, not heavy cloud cover black. It's black black,
the kind of impenetrable velvet darkness that only happens in
the deepest part of the night. I sit up, the
sheets pooling around my waist. Here the other side of
the bed is umpy. The sheets are cool. He's been
up for a while. I slide out of bed, shivering.
The room is cold, colder than it should be. The
heating system in the manner is old and temperamental, but
this feels different. The air has a stillness to it,
a weight. I walk to the window and press my
hand against the glass. Nothing. No stars, no moon, no
faint gray line on the horizon promising the sun. Just absolute,
suffocating darkness. Seven o five a m. I grab my
robe and hurry out into the hall. The sconces are lit,
casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls. The house
feels asleep, but not in the peaceful way it did yesterday.
It feels held suspended. I find Kir in the kitchen.
He's standing by the window, a mug of coffee in
his hand, staring out at the blackness. He's fully dressed, jeans,
a heavy sweater, boots. He looks like he's ready for
a siege. Here he doesn't turn coffee fresh here. Look
at the window. I see it. It's seven in the morning.
I know where's the sun. He finally turns to face me.
His expression is calm, too calm. It's the face he
wears when he's managing a crisis. The alpha in training
mask that shuts down all emotion. The dense canopy, he says,
heavy cloud cover. The valley is deep, viv. Sometimes the
light takes a while to reach us. Don't do that.
Speaker 4: Do what?
Speaker 2: Don't gaslight me? My voice is sharper than I intended,
echoing in the quiet kitchen. I've been living here for weeks.
I know what dawn looks like, even on cloudy days,
even in the rain, the sky turns gray. This isn't gray,
this is midnight. He takes a sip of his coffee.
Deliberate and slow. Magic is fluid viv. You know that
the atmosphere in the valley, it responds to things, shifts, shifts.
I stuck closer to him. You're telling me the magic
just decided to cancel the sunrise. Delay it, he corrects gently,
Not cancel. It happens rare, but not unheard of. It happens.
I repeat, when when was the last time the sun
didn't rise? It's complicated to explain. He sets his mug down.
You're looking at this like a human, like a scientist.
You expect physics to follow rules gravity, rotation, time, but
here the rules are different. The treaty, the fay influence.
It all creates a local reality that is flexible, flexible. Yes,
I stare at him. He believes it. That's the terrifying part.
He's not lying to me, not consciously. He's lying to
to himself. He's standing there looking at a world that
is fundamentally broken, and he's rationalizing in a way with packmisticism. Here,
I say, keeping my voice steady. I don't need to
be a mechanic to know when the engine is smoking.
His jaw tightens. It's not smoking. The sun is gone.
The sun is gone. The sun is gone. The sun
is gone, and the patchy is gone. It's light. He
steps toward me, reaching for my hands. His grip is warm, solid, reassuring,
viv please trust me. This is an anomaly, a fluctuation.
It will pass, and if it doesn't, it will How
can you be sure? How can you look at that?
I gesture violently at the window and not be terrified.
Because I know this place, he says, simply. I know
its rhythms, I know its soul. The valley pt acts us,
It provides for us. Sometimes it demands things in return, patience, faith,
but it has never failed us.
Speaker 1: Faith.
Speaker 2: He's talking about faith. I'm talking about astrophysics. We are
speaking different languages. Okay, I say, I pull my hands away. Okay,
keep your faith, viv. I'm going to the library to
do what to read. I turn away, wrapping my robe
tighter around myself. If the sun isn't going to come up,
I might as well get some work done by lamplight.
I leave him there in the kitchen, staring out at
the impossible dark. It's seven point fifteen a m. The
sun still hasn't risen, and for the first time since
I came to Slate Fall, I feel completely utterly alone.
Speaker 4: The shadow moves where the light one stood. So then
whispers in the empty.
Speaker 1: The wind did cry. It cause mind
Speaker 3: A fleeting acles signal marks fah