The fae do not dream as mortals do.
They remember.
I stand where the world is thin, where roots drink moonlight and the air hums with truths no one wishes to hear. This grove has no name that tongues can safely speak, only a vibration older than kingdoms and younger than eternity. Here, time folds in on itself, and futures bleed backward into the present.
Tonight, the weave trembles.
I feel it before I see it.
A pull—sharp, sudden, wrong.
The threads of fate twist, tightening around a singular point on the map of existence. A place where silver once burned the sky. Where blood sanctified soil. Where a curse was buried and sworn forgotten.
Bloodstone.
I close my eyes, and the world opens.
The future fractures like glass dropped upon stone.
So many paths once existed here. Hundreds
