To the Fae Realm
Elowen POV
Stormclaw War Room
An Hour After Verenya’s Warning
“We’re done dancing around this shit.”
My voice cut through the room like a blade. Every head turned toward me, eyes sharp, tired, and still stained with blood or grief from the battlefield. But I was clear. I was decided. And the star beneath my eye pulsed like it agreed.
“If the Blood Goddess is making her move on the land itself, and Raelith’s corrupted fae portals are being used to attack my people, then it’s time we stop trying to patch holes and go straight to the fucking dam.”
Lachlan blinked. “Ye want to confront the High Crown?”
“Yes,” I said. “We go to Elarion Spire.”
Ashrian leaned back in his chair, boots up on the war table like he owned it. “You know how insane that sounds, right?”
“Yup,” I replied. “Still doing it.”
“They haven’t seen a werewolf delegation in over a century,” Rylen muttered, rubbing his temples. “And the last time they did, they tried to collar them and call it peace.”
Daxon growled. “If someone tries to collar me, I will bite their fucking face off.”
“You better,” I smirked.
Bram crossed his arms. “And we’re trusting the Fae royals why?”
“I’m not,” I said honestly. “But they’re still the ruling crown over the Five Elemental Courts. And if we’re going to stop this at the source, we need more than prayer and potions. We need alliances. Power. Access to the fae ley lines. Maybe even a few unstable nobles we can blackmail.”
Lachlan snorted. “I like where this is goin’.”
We were going to Aetheros. We were going to the fucking fae realm. And that meant we needed glamours, political cover, court friendly armor, ceremonial weapons, protective wards, and a long ass list of how not to get stabbed by a fae protocols.
Taya showed up with scrolls and travel crystals, mumbling, “Hope you like moonstone architecture and passive aggressive insults delivered in song.”
I pulled a robe off one of the racks and held it up. “Do I look like a stuck up royal bitch yet?”
Ashrian whistled low. “Honestly? If you go in there looking like that, half the court will bow, the other half will propose.”
Daxon stepped behind me, his lips brushing my ear. “And I’ll rip their throats out if they touch you.”
“Gods, you're all so dramatic,” I muttered, but my pulse jumped anyway.
Bram handed me a belt lined with throwing blades. “You’re not going in there unarmed.”
“Of course not,” I said, strapping it on. “I’m going in charming and armed. That way when I gut someone in the throne room, it’s still technically a diplomatic mission.”
Lachlan raised his hands. “For the record, I love this plan.”
We would enter through the ancient stone circle at the northern ridge, one of the few uncorrupted portals that still shimmered with moonlight instead of blood. Once inside the Fae Realm, we’d travel by leywalk to Elarion Spire, a neutral, floating moonstone city suspended above all five elemental territories.
At its center stood the High Throne, where the Moonveil royals ruled:
High Queen Seraphina Moonveil, elusive, elegant, and older than most mountains. Said to speak to stars and secrets alike.
High King Thandriel Moonveil, cold, calculating, and reportedly fading in both power and influence.
Their word was still law. But that grip? Fracturing. And if Raelith had already sunk her claws into the elemental courts? Then the Spire might not be as neutral as it looked.
I stood at the edge of the portal grove, armor laced, blades hidden beneath flowing green and silver ceremonial robes that hugged every damn curve I had. My mates were beside me, dressed like walking, snarling nightmares the Fae would never forget.
“I know this is risky,” I said, turning to face them. “I know this might be a trap.”
“But if we’re going to stop this before the realms fall into chaos, we need the High Crown.”
Daxon nodded. “And if they’re already compromised?”
“Then we’ll burn the fucking Spire down,” I said.
Ash smirked. “Now that’s my queen.”
The portal shimmered, pale silver and soft, but humming with old, wild power. Lachlan offered his hand. “Shall we go meet the gods and monsters, mo ghrá?”
I took it. And stepped through. The portal opened with a sound like breath drawn through glass. Cool wind struck my face first, soft and perfumed, full of magic, laced with something old. Then came the light. Blinding, silver white moonlight shining down from above where the Spire floated in eternal dusk. Crystalline bridges stretched across endless sky, suspended by runes and magic so refined it didn’t hum, it sang.
Elarion Spire. Crown of the Fae Realm. Home of the High Court of Aetheros. And we were about to fuck up their peace and quiet.
I stepped onto the glowing moonstone platform, my ceremonial armor glinting silver and green, the star beneath my eye pulsing faintly. My cloak billowed behind me, enchanted for travel, reinforced with runes, and heavy with weight I didn’t feel until this moment.
Behind me came my mates:
Ashrian, all shadow and blades, his cloak swirling around him like smoke, his eyes locked on every fae in sight.
Daxon, armored, furious, and radiating that alpha wolf heat like a silent warning.
Bram, massive in his dark leathers, war axe strapped to his back, his gaze cold and calculating.
Lachlan, regal and terrifying, his mage robes laced with elemental thread and his brogue sharp as the daggers at his belt.
But we weren’t alone.
The Spire floor rumbled slightly beneath the weight of our arrival. Because I didn’t come with courtiers. I came with an army.
Alpha King Draven and Luna Aelira, in their royal armor, moon forged and gold lined, their presence sharp enough to wound.
King Halrik and Luna Nira, all bear strength and ancient fury, dressed in deep forest green with silver crests glowing at their throats.
Isolde and Alaric, coven mother and father, walking like divine wrath and prophecy made flesh.
Taya and Rylen, hand in hand, her hair wild, his wolf barely beneath the surface.
Jace and Amaris, quiet and focused, walking shoulder to shoulder with weapons cloaked but ready.
And behind them, a full strike team of twenty wolves, cloaked and armored. Silent. Deadly. Three elite mages, their palms glowing faintly, each carrying divine tokens from their patron temples. We didn’t come to beg. We came to remind them who the fuck we are.
A row of Fae guards stood along the landing, their golden armor flawless, and their faces unreadable. Their captain bowed stiffly as we approached.
“You stand at the gates of Elarion Spire, sacred crown of Aetheros,” he announced. “By decree of High Queen Seraphina and High King Thandriel, you are granted audience under the laws of truce.”
Ashrian muttered behind me, “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
The Fae captain looked like he wanted to say something smart, but one glance at my mates, and the fully armed delegation behind me, and he thought better of it.
I lifted my chin. “We come with urgent divine cause. And we’ll leave with answers. Or fire.”
He swallowed. “Follow me.”
We moved through the Spire like an omen. Every crystal corridor glittered with magic. Floating staircases adjusted for our stride. Fae citizens peered through archways, wide eyed and whispering. Wolves. Bears. Witches. Warriors.
In their city. Not a threat. Not yet. But we were no one’s guests. We were a reckoning.
At the top of the glass moonbridge, two thrones waited. White as death. Tall as gods. And seated there,
High Queen Seraphina Moonveil, her gown stitched from starlight and ice, her hair falling like silver rain, her eyes ancient and unreadable.
High King Thandriel Moonveil, dark robed, his expression carved in shadow and judgement, hands folded atop a long crystal scepter etched with old lunar script.
They did not rise. But they watched. I stepped forward, crownless, cloaked, and radiant with stardust and fury.
“Elowen Skye Thorne,” Seraphina said, her voice soft as snowfall. “Goddess touched. Divine marked. Wolf of the mortal realms.”
“I didn’t come to play politics,” I said. “I come to tell you the realms are bleeding. The temples are burning. And your people are next.”
The Spire pulsed beneath our feet.The queen’s expression didn’t shift, but something sparked in her eyes.
Thandriel leaned forward, one brow raised. “And you believe we care… why?”
Behind me, Daxon growled. Ashrian cracked his knuckles. Lachlan muttered a curse in Gaelic. Bram just smiled.
“I’m not asking you to care because I’m human,” I said, my voice steady as I stared down the High Crown of the Fae. “I’m telling you to act because I’m one of your own.”
Seraphina’s head tilted. Thandriel narrowed his eyes.
“I am half-fae. Born of your blood, shaped by divine fire. And Raelith will not stop at corrupting temples. She’ll take the ley lines, the courts, the Spire itself. She already has footholds. You’re just too arrogant to see it.”
Thandriel’s jaw clenched. “The balance of realms is not your concern.”
“The fuck it isn’t.”
I stepped forward. “You sit in your floating palace of moonlight while blood runs in the dirt below. Will you sit and watch it drown, too? Will you wait until she knocks at your fucking throne?”
A long, cold pause. Then Seraphina spoke, her lips barely parting. “We will not involve ourselves in mortal panic or half blood prophecies. This council is dismissed.”
Behind me, Daxon’s growl vibrated the glass. Lachlan swore in Gaelic. Ashrian straight up laughed. Bram cracked his knuckles, ready to wreck royalty.
I didn’t get the chance to speak. Because the sky split open. The floor beneath us trembled. The light dimmed.
A scream echoed from the upper balconies, and the entire Spire shook as a massive silver and green dragon soared overhead, the shadow blotting out the moonlight. His roar shattered the glass. Statues cracked. Moonstone walls moaned under the weight of his power.
He circled once, then dove. When he landed on the moonbridge just outside the throne hall, the shockwave sent most of the court scrambling to their knees. The dragon exhaled, smoke curling around his fangs, emerald eyes locked straight on me.
And then, he shifted.
Seven feet of raw muscle and glowing power. Bronze skin, kissed by flame and storm. Emerald hair, braided with shards of scale and metal. Eyes like wildfire in a forest, glowing, furious, and mine. The man, no, the goddamn force of nature, stalked forward, every step a rumble.
When he reached me, he didn’t bow. He didn’t ask. He growled. “Mate.”
Everyone froze. I couldn't breathe. The High Crown sat in stunned silence.
“You are mine, Elowen Skye Thorne. I felt you the second you crossed the realms. You belong to me, and I to you. And no Spire, no fae, no cursed goddess will stop me from claiming what is mine.”
Lyssira purred, "Oh hell yes."
He turned, slowly and deliberately, to face the High Crown.
“I am Vaelrix Drakenholt, first son and King of the Dragon Court, and warbound commander of the Iron Wing.”
His voice echoed through the Spire like prophecy. “If you do not help my mate…”
He let the threat hang as his body began to glow with rising heat, cracks of fire spidering across his chest and arms. “…we will burn this skybound kingdom from the clouds down.”
Then he smiled. “And trust me, High King, we brought the whole fucking court.”
The ground rumbled again...deeper and longer.
Outside, horns sounded. And in the distance, across the clouds and floating bridges of the Spire, the first Dragonborn war banners rose like a storm on the horizon.